"It's a public piano," she said. "Kids can play it. You can also run around and get a pretzel. You can do both. If somebody tells you it's only for daydreaming, you can wait, and then you can decide. Waiting isn't the same as leaving. But you don't have to prove anything to a stranger to be allowed to be small and serious. That's a lot of words. The short version is yes."
The girl looked at her mother. The mother nodded. "We have a minute," the mother said. "If you're done. We don't want to take your turn."
"I'm done," Aaliyah said. She stood and drew the bench out a little, then let the girl move it herself, because the moving was part of the ownership. "It sticks on the left. Don't put a drink on it. If you only find three notes, that's a real start. Nobody here gets to laugh."
The girl sat. She pressed one key, too hard, a shout. She glanced up, braced.
"Hello," Aaliyah said, gently. "Not a shout. Try again like you're waking it up."
The girl tried again. The note was smaller. It was hers. Her mother exhaled. Somewhere in the queue a blender roared and died. The glass ceiling held the light steady, pale and even, uninterested in lessons, perfect for them anyway.