Richard's mouth twitched. "I got weird about it."
"You did," Ethan said. "And then you got less weird. Slowly."
"I'm still slow," Richard said.
"I know. Mom said you were a glacier with good intentions."
They both laughed, and the laughter did not betray Claire. It included her. After a while Ethan retrieved the violin from the car and played the folk arrangement by the water, not loudly, not for an audience, just for the date and the river and the man learning how to stand beside grief without managing it. A couple walking a dog paused, listened, moved on. Richard did not film it. He only listened, which was the newer skill.
June brought final academy concerts and the soft chaos of packing lists. Helena Marie Ashcroft hosted a small farewell gathering in Studio B for students leaving for summer programs. She wore her black teaching clothes even for celebration, as if elegance were a form of respect for the work. She gave a short speech about carrying their ears with them into louder cities. When she came to Ethan, she did not single him out with mythology. She simply said his name among the others, then later, privately, pressed into his hand a new cake of rosin and a card.
Inside the card she had written: You were ready the day you said you were. My job was to catch up. —H.M.A.