Annie considered the parameter, then nodded as if that were the only answer that made structural sense.
---
In the weeks that followed, their daily routine became even more rigorously structured. Annie trained more hours on the floor, but Caroline was meticulous about her joint health—schoolwork remained the absolute priority, proper rest was enforced, and Annie remained a normal child who laughed too loudly at dinner and occasionally forgot where she had placed her math workbook.
One night, about two weeks before they were scheduled to depart for the national showcase, Annie and Lena were walking home from the bus stop, their coats bundled against the late winter chill. Annie asked a question she hadn't brought up in months.
"Mama?"
"Yes, baby."
"If I hadn't walked through those service doors into that ballroom last year... would I still be a dancer?"
Lena thought about the question carefully before responding, her boots crunching on the thin ice. "Yes," she said clearly. "You would still be a dancer, Annie. It just might have taken the world a little bit longer to notice the music in your bones."
Annie held her mother's hand tighter inside her pocket. "I'm glad the orchestra was loud that night."
"So am I, baby. So am I."
The night before their train was scheduled to leave for the national showcase, Charles came by the apartment. He wasn't wearing a suit; he wore a plain winter coat, his eyes looked tired from a long corporate week, and he held a small cardboard box in his hand.
"I brought something for Annie," he said, setting it on the kitchen table.
Annie opened the lid carefully. Inside rested a small, simple silver necklace with a tiny charm shaped like a three-quarter music note.