"You look happy," Richard said.
"I am," Ethan James Mercer said, surprised by how simply it could be stated. "Not every minute. But enough minutes to count as a life."
The scratched case bumped lightly against his knee as they walked. Somewhere in its velvet, the violin waited—scarred, tuned, ready. Somewhere ahead waited rooms he could not yet name. Behind him waited Studio B, and a first day, and a sentence spoken by a boy who had looked out of place and refused to postpone himself: Just don't stop me once I start.
He had started.
He was still going.
And the people who loved him—teacher with blonde hair and black teaching clothes, father learning a softer wealth, friend with a spare bow and a fierce loyalty—had learned, each in their own tempo, the most important accompaniment of all: how to listen without interrupting the music of becoming.