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“Dylan misses you too.” I addressed the photograph beside my bed.

My family smiled and laughed but, as usual, said nothing.

I sighed, switched off the bedside light, and snuggled into my pillow. As I lay staring up at the ceiling, waiting for sleep, the mellow sound of a guitar playing a familiar tune drifted into my room. I wondered for a moment where it was coming from, and then I realized—Dylan was playing. I’d never heard him play.

Hell yes! This I had to see.

I scrambled out of bed, soft-footed my way along the landing, and crept down the stairs as the gentle strains of Pachelbel floated up from Dylan’s study. It was amazing, a complex, seamless blending of harmonics, single strings, and chords, yet his rendition had a melancholic tone I’d never heard in the work before. I sat down on the middle landing and listened enraptured by his expertise.

Wow, he’s good.

He finished, and I felt bereft. But he started again, a different piece, and it took my breath away. It was stunningly simple; the melody breezed from one note to another full of sadness and longing.

Oh wow. Arpeggios!

I had to see him play to believe that Mr. Cool and Clinical could be injecting such feeling into the music. I slunk down the rest of the stairs in my bare feet and stole across the hall to peer around his open study door. Dylan was sitting in his captain’s chair, facing the window and staring into the night as he played. The room was in darkness except for a small desk lamp, which cast dancing shadows over the walls as he swayed gently in his chair.

He played with quiet confidence. So much like him. No sheet music—he just felt his way through the music.

He’s brilliant.

Tristan’s words came back to me: Long enough to realize that you can’t have been out much and had fun, to play like you do. Perhaps Dylan was more like me than I’d realized—isolated and practicing. All the time practicing. He certainly played well enough.

He finished and stared up at the window, where his eyes met mine in the reflection on the glass. He swiveled the chair to face me. “I thought it was Lulu.” His eyes grew wide and dark in the somber light, his expression unreadable.

“That was extraordinary.”

“Coming from you I’ll take that as a compliment. What are you doing up? Can’t you sleep?” he asked.

“I heard you playing, I had to see for myself. What’s that piece called?”

“Comptine D’un Autre Été,” he said in flawless French. “It’s from a film.”

“Will you play it again? Please?”

“No, Emily, it’s late. You must be tired. Please go to bed.”

“Please?” I whispered.

He closed his eyes for a moment as if he were praying. “Okay,” he whispered, resigned.

He started to play the piece again, opening his eyes and alternating between watching me and his fingers. Each note, each chord, was perfect. And I knew he’d spent countless hours studying this instrument like me with my cello.

He finished with one sweet harmonic.

“Breathtaking,” I murmured.

“Thank you. Now, please go to bed.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m just tired. Go to bed.”

“Okay.” I didn’t want to distress him any further. “I loved the Pachelbel too,” I added, hoping to lighten the mood by mentioning our go-to canon.

He gave me a rueful, sad smile.

I frowned. He didn’t seem okay. “Are you sure—”