"You look like you slept," Ethan said.
"I slept. Also I moved some boxes out of the attic. There are more of your mother's notebooks. Music, grocery lists, a terrible poem about a raccoon. I thought we could go through them when you want. Not as a project. As a visit."
Ethan nodded. "Soon. Not tonight. Tonight I want ordinary."
Ordinary arrived as leftover pizza and a baseball game on television neither of them cared about deeply. It was perfect. When Ethan finally practiced, late, he left the door open. Richard listened from the study with Claire's photograph nearby, and for the first time in a long time the house felt less like a museum of avoidance and more like a place where sound was allowed to mean what it meant.
August drifted. Sophia came over twice a week to run duets in the living room. Helena assigned light summer work and then, near the end of the month, invited Ethan to Studio B for a private lesson that turned into tea and conversation. She asked about the intensive. She asked about Richard. She asked, carefully, whether Ethan still wanted the academy as his home base or whether he was already eyeing city conservatory pathways.
"I want both timelines," Ethan said. "I want to be eleven here, and then whatever comes after. Mom said not to rush the years that can still be years."
Helena's expression warmed. "Your mother was a better pedagogue than she may have known. We will not rush you. We will also not shrink you."