“Sure.”
Afterward the girl asked:
“Was that hotel story actually true?”
Emma thought.
“Mostly.”
“Did he really tell you to play for food?”
“Yes.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yes.”
“Were you scared?”
“Very.”
“But you looked so confident in the video.”
Emma smiled.
“Videos don't show everything.”
The girl nodded.
Then:
“I want to study music, but I'm not sure I'm good enough.”
Emma looked at her.
“Good enough for what?”
“College.”
“Maybe.”
“A career.”
“Maybe.”
The girl looked discouraged.
Emma continued:
“But if you mean good enough to make music?”
“Yes.”
“You already are.”
The teenager smiled.
Emma finished the fries.
Outside, Manhattan moved.
Cars.
Sirens.
People rushing.
Thousands of lives invisible to each other.
Emma stepped onto the sidewalk.
Her phone rang.
Hartford.
Now eighty-three.
Still impossible.
She answered.
“Yes?”
“You missed lunch.”
“I forgot.”
“You always forget.”
“I ate.”
“What?”
“Fries.”
“That is not food.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Your mother was correct.”
Emma smiled.
“Where are you?”
“Conservatory.”
“Come here.”
“Why?”
“A student is playing Winter Wind terribly.”
Emma laughed.
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
“I’m coming.”
She walked north.
Past hotels.
Restaurants.
Doorways.
People holding signs.
Executives staring at phones.
Delivery workers.
Tourists.
Students.
A man sleeping beneath cardboard.
A young woman carrying a violin case.
Nothing about the street revealed who mattered.
That lesson never left Emma.
People contain worlds nobody can see from clothing.
Talent.
Grief.
Cruelty.
Kindness.
Fear.
Potential.
Ordinary dreams.
Some worlds produce Chopin.
Some produce nothing anyone applauds.
Both deserve room.
Emma reached the conservatory.
Hartford waited inside the practice hall.
Older.
Bent slightly.
Still sharp.
“You're late.”
“You're alive.”
“Barely.”
The student at the piano looked terrified.
Emma sat beside him.
“Start again.”
He did.
Three measures.
Stopped.
“Sorry.”
Emma shook her head.