The project summary described the move as a minor temporary inconvenience.
Nia knew better.
Many families couldn't easily travel to another neighborhood after school.
The volunteer teachers depended on the existing location.
And the center's funding agreements were tied to programs that required consistent attendance.
A two-year interruption could destroy the organization long before the new building opened.
She looked toward Min-jae.
"Has Mr. Holloway told you how long the music house would be closed?"
The businessman frowned.
"Six months."
Nia shook her head.
"That's not what the community was told."
He looked toward her.
She continued.
"The public schedule says demolition begins before the replacement space is ready. The temporary site can't accommodate all the classes, and the new building might not open for two years."
Min-jae's expression changed.
For several seconds, he examined the summary.
Then he asked whether she had documents supporting the concerns.
Nia nodded.
"The community board has meeting records and correspondence with Holloway's project team."
He looked up.
"And you have access to them?"
She answered carefully.
"Some are public. I can put you in touch with the organization."
Min-jae considered that.
Then closed the folder.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Finally, he looked toward her.
"Ms. Brooks, I came to New York because Holloway told me this development would expand music education for families who couldn't afford private instruction."
Nia felt her throat tighten.
"That's what the current center already does."
He looked toward the dark window.
Then asked.
"Would you show it to me?"
Nia thought about the question all the way home.
It was almost two in the morning when she reached the apartment.
Malik was asleep on the sofa with headphones around his neck, and a half-finished music arrangement glowed on his laptop screen.
Denise's bedroom door stood partly open.
Nia quietly checked on her mother.
Denise was sleeping comfortably, one hand resting beside a book she'd been reading before bed.
The sight made Nia smile.
Her mother's recovery had been slow, but there were good days now.
Days when she could walk around the apartment more easily.
Days when her speech came without the exhausting effort that had frustrated her during the first months.
And days when she sat at the old piano and played familiar melodies even when her hands didn't always cooperate the way they once had.
Nia stood in the doorway for several seconds.
Then closed it gently.
She went to the kitchen.