September returned the academy to its rituals. New students arrived. Ethan's name, among returning players, carried a quiet reputation. He did not feed it. He helped a nervous newcomer find Studio B on the first day, and when the newcomer stared at Ethan's scratched case with the beginning of a question, Ethan said, kindly, "It still works. That's the only test that matters."
Sophia Elise Lang had grown an inch and cut her hair and somehow become more herself. She greeted Ethan with a bump of shoulders and a schedule already color-coded.
"Advanced class again," she said. "Try not to terrorize the instructor on day one this time."
"I didn't terrorize her," Ethan said. "I corrected her assumptions."
"Same difference when you're holding a bow."
They laughed. Helena Marie Ashcroft entered Studio B in black teaching clothes, blonde hair neat, glasses catching late-summer light, and surveyed her returning circle with professional pleasure. Her eyes found Ethan and Sophia and the others, and she began class without speeches about the previous year. She believed progress should be visible in work, not in nostalgia.
Still, at the end of that first session, she asked Ethan to demonstrate a phrase for the section. He stood, raised the old violin, and played. No one asked if he was sure he belonged. The question had been answered so thoroughly it had retired.