Ethan could not speak at first. Richard put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Ethan finally said, "Thank you for telling me." The woman nodded, squeezed his hand, and disappeared into the coat line. Ethan stood still until the world returned to its ordinary volume.
That night he opened Claire's notebooks from the attic boxes Richard had moved down. Grocery lists. Fingerings. The terrible raccoon poem. And, tucked in a back page, a letter addressed to Ethan at sixteen, which he was not yet. He did not open it. He held it and felt time fold. Richard, watching from the doorway, said, "She always planned for future versions of us."
"I'll wait," Ethan said. "I want to be sixteen when I read sixteen."
"Wise," Richard said. "Annoying, but wise."
Spring again. Cicadas warming up in the trees. Ethan helped Helena reorganize the academy's student library and found, already catalogued, a clean copy of Claire Mercer's folk arrangement with both their names on the header: arranged by Claire Mercer, performed and donated by Ethan James Mercer. He stood a long time before the shelf, then shelved a different book carefully, as if the act of placing something gently were a form of prayer.
On the last day of the term, Studio B held an informal open class for families. Parents sat along the walls. Ethan played a short duet with Sophia that made them both smile mid-phrase when a shift landed exactly. Helena thanked the families, then paused, looking at Ethan with a private question. He nodded, almost invisible. Helena turned back to the room.
"One year ago," she said, "a student arrived with a case older than he was and a refusal to be postponed. Some of you were here. Some of you have only heard the story. Stories are cheaper than listening. Today we listen."