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“That sounded specific.”

“It was.”

She gathers the envelopes and gets up.

“Eighteen years and this is all the wisdom I get?”

“You ignore the long versions.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“You recover quickly.”

The joke lands. Usually that would be enough. It isn’t.

The movers arrive before Astrid does. She pulls in behind them with a folded inventory in one hand and a mark on her sleeve from carrying something against it. I meet her at the door.

“Get my email?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I should’ve asked before I bought it.”

“Yes.”

She lowers the paper. There’s no quick rescue in her face, no line telling me we’re fine because I said the right words.

“Do you want them to take it back?”

“No. Tova wants it.”

“Okay.”

I nod. One of the movers asks about the piano, and Astrid turns toward the front room.

“Against the wall opposite the window, please.”

I would have put it beside the window, so I keep my mouth shut.

They roll it where she points. She holds the rug back with one foot while they take off the straps. The wood is darker than I expected, worn at the edge beneath the keys. The bench comes in next.

Astrid touches the top of the piano once, then looks at me.

“You wanted to hear me play.”

“I did.”

“Not today.”

“All right.”

She watches my face for a second.

“Soon.”

“Whenever you want.”

The movers call from the kitchen, and she goes to show them where the boxes belong. I stay beside the piano without touching it.