Ethan kept the card in the scratched case lid beside Claire's inscription. The two handwritings—one pencil, one ink—faced each other like adults who approved of the same child.
On the morning Richard drove Ethan and Sophia into the city for the intensive, the highway unspooled under a heat-pale sky. Sophia talked for the first hour about repertoire and dorm rules and whether the cafeteria would understand vegetarians. Ethan watched warehouses and river bridges and felt his life widening by miles. Richard checked the mirrors often, as if the road might steal something if he blinked.
At the curb of the dormitory, goodbyes became practical. Bags, keys, schedules, a reminder to charge phones. Sophia's mother hugged everyone. Richard hugged Ethan—brief, firm, new enough to still feel like a decision.
"Call me," Richard said. "Not just when you need something. Call me when you play something you like."
"Okay," Ethan said.
"And Ethan," Richard added, "if anyone looks at that case and asks if you're sure you belong, you already know the answer."
Ethan smiled. "Yes, sir."