Aaliyah did not sit. She put her hand on the side of the case, the way you greet a dog you respect. The wood was cool. A child banged two notes and was led away. Aaliyah smiled, not superior, remembering the palm, the laugh, the beginning of noise.
"You can play if you want," Ruth said. "You don't have to reenact anything. No audience required. I'll sit. My knee likes that planter."
"Maybe one phrase," Aaliyah said. "For the piano. It did its job when it was tired."
She sat. No one stopped her. No sweetheart arrived to fence her in. She played the kitchen song, sixteen bars, small enough for the fountain to share the air. A few people glanced. They did not gather into a ring. The glance was enough and also not the point. She finished, lifted her hands, and felt the private click of a circle closing without a caption.
Jordan saw her from the counter.
He was eighteen now, visor the same, acne calmer, a textbook under the register he was not supposed to read on shift and did anyway when the line died. He did not shout across the tile. He waited until she stood, then lifted a hand, unsure. Aaliyah crossed over, Ruth watching from the planter with the calm of a woman who could cross the distance in three seconds if the conversation grew teeth.
"You probably don't remember me," he said.