Richard waited in the lobby afterward, reading emails with a milder frown than before. When Ethan emerged, case in hand, hoodie sleeves rolled, hair as messy as ever, Richard stood.
"How was it?" Richard asked.
"Like continuing," Ethan said.
"Good," Richard Alan Mercer said. "Continuing is the point."
Autumn of that second year arrived with a different temperature in Ethan's chest. He was twelve now—barely, the birthday marked by Sophia's homemade cupcakes and Richard's gift of a better stand light and, unexpectedly, a framed photograph of Claire mid-bow-stroke from a community concert long ago. Ethan hung the photograph above his practice corner. Some mornings he tuned beneath her captured motion as if receiving a silent downbeat.
The academy announced a winter concerto competition for youth players. Unlike the showcase, this one had rankings, jurors, and a cash award Ethan did not care about and a performance slot with a small orchestra that he cared about intensely. Helena left the choice to him.
"Competitions can clarify or distort," she said in lesson. "You decide which you need right now."