For a few seconds, he didn’t notice me, and then he glanced up toward the door—maybe he’d sensed a change in the light. When he saw me, his frown softened, and he gave me a faint smile, but it didn’t break the fluid rhythm of his playing. He went back to the keys, and I stood leaning against the doorway and watched and listened.

The piece he played was quick and light, but with slower, meditative parts. I was embarrassed by my lack of musical knowledge and hoped I wouldn’t be called on to say something intelligent about it.

But that wasn’t really what I was focused on.

I was focused on the absolute tension of his body, the way his hands and fingers always seemed to be playing the next notes before I even took in the last ones. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the angles of his shoulders, the way he held his head.

He loved this. It was important to him. And he was so good at it. I held my breath, as if that could keep his fingers dancing, help push him along the lines of the melody. As if I was part of it.

Finally, the song ended, and he plucked out a playful little flourish and then turned and grinned at me.

Oh, help.

“What . . .” I began. “What is this?”

“This,” he said, standing up and giving the keys another little twizzling riff, “is called a piano.”

“No, but seriously,” I said. “How did I not know you played? Where do you practice?”

“In my room, mostly,” he said. “I have a keyboard and a pair of headphones. Mom doesn’t like the noise.”

“How could she not like that?” I asked. “I could listen to it all day.”

A soft smile curved his lips. “That’s sweet,” he said.

“I don’t understand.” I couldn’t stop myself from moving closer.

He shrugged. “She just doesn’t like music very much. I don’t get it, either, but it’s her house.”

“Do you play at school?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m starting in the conservatory program this fall.”

“Wow.”

“Well.” He shrugged. “It’s not hard to get into, but it should be fun.”

“Does Agatha like to hear you play?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. She used to. But she hasn’t heard me for a while.”

“We should try sometime,” I said. “I’ve been wondering about music. Whether it helps her.”

He sighed. “Like I said, Mom’s kind of into silence.”

“We could get a headphone splitter.”

His expression suddenly got a little brighter. “Yeah, actually. We could. That’s a great idea.”

I stared at the piano, which was gleaming black and six feet long. “I've never seen a piano this big.”

“Do you play?”

I shook my head. “I took lessons until third grade, but I complained so much I broke my mother’s will.”