Henry nodded. “We went to the music shop.”
“And acquired a stack of staff paper Henry deemed essential,” Marcus added, drawing a small laugh from the boy.
Mrs. Pritchard smiled. “Luncheon will be ready shortly. Would you like to wash first?”
Henry hesitated and looked to Marcus.
“Go on,” Marcus said. “I’ll follow.”
Henry took the stairs with measured energy, not reckless, not withdrawn, something carefully hopeful. Marcus watched until he disappeared, then released a breath he had not realized he’d been holding.
It had been a good morning. A small step, perhaps. But forward.
He crossed the drawing room as Henry’s footsteps faded above him. Sunlight pooled across the lid of the pianoforte near the window. For weeks, Henry had skirted the instrument as though it carried memory too sharp to touch.
Today, Marcus noticed it without bracing himself.
Henry returned a few minutes later, hair still damp, staff paper tucked beneath his arm. He approached the pianoforte slowly, with a measured care that spoke of choice rather than fear.
“May I try something?” he asked.
Marcus moved aside at once. “Of course.”
Henry set the paper down and lifted the fallboard. His fingers brushed the keys as though reacquainting themselves. One note sounded. Then another. He listened closely.
He began to play.
The notes wavered at first, uncertain beneath Henry’s fingers.
Marcus listened without speaking.
When Henry reached the final tone of the phrase, Marcus heard the sound complete itself in the quiet room.
He realized a moment later the last note had come from him.
A faint hum had slipped from his own throat.
Marcus went still.
He had not hummed anything in years.
The sound lingered briefly in the air before fading, small and unfamiliar, like a memory that had not yet decided whether it belonged to him.
He said nothing.
Henry continued playing.
Not a full piece, just the opening bars of the simple exercise Lila had given him. The notes were uneven at first from disuse, but Henry did not stop. His shoulders steadied. His breath evened. Sunlight caught in his hair as he leaned closer, intent.
Marcus felt something shift.
He had not expected the sound, not so soon. He had not realized how deeply he had missed it until the room filled with those tentative notes. Music had always been Henry’s way of speaking when words failed him. Hearing it again felt like a door opening where Marcus had feared only stone.
Henry finished the phrase and hesitated. “It sounds different.”
“How so?” Marcus asked.
Henry tapped a finger against the key. “Before, I thought about playing it right. Now I’m thinking about how it feels like Miss Edgewood said. The shape of it.”
