As if on its own volition, Katrina’s hand reached into her purse and retrieved a business card. It looked exactly as it had before. No smudges, no folds. Even the corners were crisp and sharp.

To look like this, after everything she had been through, seemed like a miracle. And the miracle’s name was Shizuka Satomi.

Katrina asked the server for the check, took out her phone, and opened Google Maps.

Where Katrina was from, only white people lived on hills. Other people, even the rich ones, usually just bought larger homes with bigger driveways to accommodate more cars, extended families, or both.

White people, on the other hand, grew uncomfortable when others looked down at them, so the rich ones preferred to roost in the heights.

Here, though, in these hills, were pickup trucks, not the shiny kind, but the kind that held lawn mowers. There were more families, more gardens. Yes, there was wealth—the BMWs and that large marble statue of Kuan Yin didn’t lie—but the yards were more likely to hold vegetables than fountains and lawns.

After thirty-five minutes of walking, she stood in front of a house. It was a house that had been cared for, immaculately, for years. Even the Jaguar in the driveway seemed calm and secure. In the front was a garden, with some bonsai, a persimmon tree, and a little stone path leading up to the front door.

Katrina could felt her breath and heartbeat quicken. Once she set foot on that path, knocked on that door, her life might change forever.

Then she heard footsteps and sharp steel.

The old lady had been harvesting beans. She looked at Katrina closely.

Katrina froze.

“You! Girl or boy?” the old lady asked gruffly.

In a panic, Katrina turned and rushed down the hill.

What was she doing here? What could she have been thinking? Evan wasn’t so bad, and it was only for a little while. She would figure out how to get less creepy work. She would find a way to do cam sessions.

She looked at her empty hands and cursed. Besides, only an idiot would visit a violin teacher without bringing a violin.

Another Saturday morning and not a word.

And also, not a sound. And this was bothering Shizuka more and more each day. Wherever she was, that girl had not played violin since that day in the park. If she had, Shizuka would have sensed it immediately.

To be filled with such music, yet be unable to play.

She was not unfamiliar with what that could do to a soul.

Shizuka nibbled absently on a potato pancake. Suddenly her mouth encountered something familiar, yet unpleasant.

“I put some of the Lieus’ bitter melon in the rösti. It adds a nice color, doesn’t it?”

Shizuka nodded weakly, then reached for the honey.