The building wasn't luxurious.
The floors creaked.
Several windows needed replacing.
And the heating system made noises that concerned everyone except the maintenance volunteer who insisted it had sounded that way for twenty years.
But the rooms were filled with life.
On weekday afternoons, students arrived carrying violin cases, drumsticks, guitars, and school backpacks. Parents waited near the entrance, sometimes helping younger children with homework while lessons continued behind the closed doors.
Some children spoke English at home.
Others spoke Korean, Spanish, Mandarin, Arabic, or languages Nia was still learning to recognize.
The center offered subsidized lessons, after-school rehearsals, language-linked music activities, and performances open to the neighborhood.
It didn't have a prestigious name.
Its annual budget was tiny compared with the institutions Holloway donated money to.
But it had changed hundreds of lives.
Nia knew that because it had changed hers.
When she was fourteen, the center welcomed her into a Korean language and music workshop taught by a retired pianist named Mrs. Park.
Mrs. Park didn't simply teach pronunciation.
She explained how Korean words changed depending on the relationship between speakers, why respectful language mattered, and how emotion could be carried through tone even before a listener understood every word.
Nia loved the lessons.
She began attending every Saturday.
Eventually, Mrs. Park introduced her to Korean popular music.
And the song Nia later sang to Soo-bin became part of her adolescence.
The center's director was a Korean American woman named Yoon Sun-hee.
She was sixty-two, energetic, and famously unwilling to tolerate adults who treated children as obstacles.
She had spent thirty years teaching piano before taking over the center's daily operations. Her office was covered with photographs, handwritten thank-you notes, and colorful drawings from students who sometimes couldn't afford to purchase their own instruments.
When Nia arrived on Saturday, Sun-hee was arguing with a plumber.
"The pipe is leaking into the piano room," she insisted.
The plumber looked exhausted.
"I understand, ma'am."
"Then why are you telling me Tuesday?"
He began explaining the supply delay.
Nia smiled.
Some things never changed.
When Sun-hee noticed her, the older woman stopped mid-sentence.
"Nia!"
She approached quickly.
Then looked at her with unusual seriousness.
"I saw a video."
Nia froze.
"What video?"
Sun-hee raised one eyebrow.
"A millionaire making a fool of himself while you speak Korean."
Nia closed her eyes.
"Oh, no."
The director folded her arms.
"And why didn't you tell me you were meeting Han Min-jae?"
Nia laughed nervously.