Ethan nodded. "That's the advanced class version of being a dad, I think."
Richard laughed aloud in the street, startling a pigeon. "Ashcroft would approve of that metaphor."
"She would correct my bow arm in the middle of it," Ethan said.
They ate noodles on stools at a narrow counter. Richard did not check his email. Ethan noticed and did not mention noticing, which was its own kindness.
When parents' weekend ended, Richard left a folded note in Ethan's case before the return train. Ethan found it that evening:
E — I used to think the scratched case made us look unfinished in rooms that valued polish. I was wrong. Polish is easy to buy. What you carry is harder. Keep going. Don't stop once you start. —Dad
Ethan sat on his dorm bed and read it three times. Then he placed it with Claire's inscription and Helena's card, a small archive of people learning how to love him in ink.