Chapter 1: The Note Left Over

He tucked his arms behind him. There was a pale mark on his wrist where his watch usually sat; he had removed it after she once mentioned the buckle touching the case. She had not needed to remind him.

She played the note with its neighboring keys, then returned to it alone.

“Does it get rougher as it fades?”

“Yes.”

She looked up.

He repeated himself, facing her. “A little. At the end.”

There were days when speech seemed to arrive wrapped in paper. She could hear that someone had spoken, could even hear impatience or amusement, while the words remained folded away. At sixty-four, she had begun choosing seats according to which side of her would face the room. She had stopped turning on the kitchen radio because she disliked being addressed by something she could not ask to repeat itself.

The piano was different. She could sound a note again. It did not grow careful with her.

She set her hand, made a small adjustment, and struck the key.

The boy bent his head.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

She waited through the fading sound. For a moment she heard what he meant, a steadiness she could follow almost to its disappearance. Her shoulders loosened. She struck it again, harder, and heard enough to know it was right.

“That’s it,” he said.

From the kitchen came the smell of warm bread. Nora Bell was opening the oven; a hinge gave its familiar squeal. The dining chair waited with the boy’s coat over it, and beside that chair was another, pulled slightly clear of the table for her.

Ada Mercer kept her hand on the lever.

Then she moved it back a fraction.

The next note carried the faint disturbance again. Not something that would stop a song. Something a person could notice and ask about.

The boy looked from the keyboard to her hand.

She removed the lever and laid it in its cloth.

“We’ll hear it once everything’s put back.”

He stepped away to give her room. Usually he asked which tool she wanted next. This time she reached for the mute herself.

They worked through the remaining checks. At the bottom of the keyboard he could hear little difference between two sounds she asked him to compare, and she told him that was useful to know too. He watched while she replaced the front panel, then held one end when she asked. The wood settled into place with a soft knock.

“Now,” she said.

He pressed the troublesome key.

She had expected him to play several notes. Alone, it sounded more exposed.

“With something around it.”