The atrium smelled like coffee grounds and wet wool and the metal of the trains underneath, a Saturday smell, bright through the tall glass even when the sky was the color of the benches. Families cut across the tile with shopping bags and strollers. A kiosk sold burnt regular and called it house blend. The black upright piano sat where the station had put it so people would film themselves and mostly did not. The bench was empty. A paper sign said play if you want, twenty minutes, be kind.
Jonah Hale was ten and thin in the way that came from growing faster than groceries, messy dark hair, a gray hoodie with a cuff unraveling, faded jeans, sneakers scuffed down to the pale at the toe. His backpack was frayed at the strap he held. He stood a few feet from the piano and looked at it the way other boys looked at a scoreboard. He did not bounce. He did not ask anyone to watch. The keys were chipped on the middle C. He already knew that from last Saturday, when he had gotten four minutes before a man with a suitcase needed the bench for a phone call.
Allison Perry noticed him because her daughter had pointed. Allison was late thirties, ponytail, athleisure the color of money that did not announce itself, a shopping bag with tissue paper at the top. She folded her arms and smiled the smile she used at recitals when a child froze.
“Sweetie, you’re too little for that piano.”