Summer approached again, the second intensive application already a rumor in Ethan's email drafts. Before that, though, there was a small private milestone: Ethan finally opened, not the letter for sixteen, but a thinner envelope Richard found taped beneath a drawer lining in Claire's old desk, labeled For when he starts playing for strangers. Ethan was twelve, and strangers had already heard him, and the envelope felt due.
They opened it together at the kitchen island. Inside was a single page in Claire's hand:
My Ethan,
If you are reading this, you have taken our scratched companion into rooms that do not know us. Do not apologize for the case. Do not apologize for your hoodie or your hair or the fact that you look younger than your sound. People will try to postpone you out of fear dressed as care. Be polite. Be firm. Start. Do not stop once you start, unless stopping is your choice and not their discomfort. Your father will struggle and then surprise you. Let him. I loved him for reasons that still exist under his meetings. And if a girl offers you a bow when yours is frayed, thank her and keep that kind of friend close; the musical world has enough solitary geniuses and not enough decent witnesses. Play what you mean. Mean what you play. I am so proud I could invent new words for it, but the old ones will do: I love you. Keep going.
—Mom
Ethan cried then, finally, without negotiating the tears into something more dignified. Richard cried too, less loudly, the way men who have postponed grief sometimes do when paperwork becomes a voice. They sat until the clock made an ordinary sound and the refrigerator hummed and the world politely continued.
Ethan folded the letter into the case lid with the other sacred scraps. The archive was getting crowded. He did not mind. Some instruments carry dampers and spare strings. His carried proof.