“Oh. Thank you.” I cleared my throat—a harsh sound, ruining it. “My mom always had me sing the melody of a keyboard piece before I started working it. She said I sounded happier singing music than playing it, so I needed to . . .”

I pressed my lips together, not liking the direction this memory was headed.

“So . . .” Oscar nodded to the paper, a question in his eyes.

“Yeah, it sounds . . .” I waited for the surge of memory to ebb. Then I drew a breath. “Why do you care what I think?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t have an eye for this. Or an ear. Maybe an arm.”

He ran his thumb down my wrist again. “Thanks for that.”

“I’m not an expert. It sounds . . . lovely to me? But I can’t hear all of it in my head the way other people seem to be able to.”

“Hum it for me again.”

I went warm, but picked up the paper and teased out the melody. When I stopped and looked up again, Oscar’s eyes were glowing.

“You do get it.” He took the paper from me. “You get it in a different way.”

I smiled through my puzzlement. This moment felt so tenuous, like the early-morning haze before the sun breaks over the skyline, everything insubstantial, from the duvet under me to the boy in front of me.

Then he crumpled his composition into a ball.

“What are you doing?” I rose onto my knees, reaching for it.

He pulled it away. “It’s cool, this was an idea. You gave me a better one.”

“How?”

“Trust me, it’s fine!” He tossed it at what looked to be the discard pile beside the sofa. “This will get me there but . . . yeah. Not it.”

“Oscar—”

“Especially after the Mozart. Hearing that and then writing this? I don’t know. Maybe I need a quiet room for a few days to get Wolfgang out of my head.” He reached out, letting my curls pool in his palm. “Maybe I need your courtyard.”

“Wolfgang might follow you. I’ve always heard music more clearly there. That was part of it, the way it could make the music in my head sound so . . . pure.”

My ritual—sitting alone in the courtyard, eyes closed, visualizing myself on a stage, playing the most breathtaking piece the world had ever heard. It had felt real there. Possible.

And now even the memory of imagining those things felt like a false one.

“Music in your head?” Oscar looked weirdly excited. “Do you ever write it down?”

“Not that kind of . . . no.” I shook my head. “I don’t compose. I don’t do anything but listen.”

“Oh. Well, without listeners, there’s no reason to play music.”

“Fair point. Count me in among the masses, then.”

If there was a hint of venom in my voice, Oscar ignored it. He moved closer. “Did you like what you listened to tonight?”