Every evening after his deliveries, Philip played. Not for fame, not for money. He played because music had become a part of him again. He had returned home.
A week after that fateful evening, Philip received an unexpected phone call.
"Hello, Maestro Mercer. This is Professor Victor Bennett. We met at the party."
Philip remembered the elderly gentleman with the mustache who taught at the conservatory. "Good morning, Professor."
"I have an offer for you. I don't want to pressure you, but at least listen to what I have to say."
Philip hesitated. "All right."
"In a month's time, there is a charity concert at St. Jude's Hall. Small, intimate, only two hundred seats. We are raising funds for families who cannot afford music lessons for their children."
Philip listened in silence.
"We had a pianist, but he has fallen ill. I thought of you. There are no cameras, no press, just people who love music."
"Professor, I am not sure..."
"Don't answer me now," the professor interrupted gently. "Think about it. If the answer is no, I will understand. But if the answer is yes, it would be an honor to have you on our stage."
That night, Philip could not sleep. He stared at the ceiling, thinking: A concert. A real concert. After seven years, he was afraid, but there was also something else: excitement, desire, the urge to feel that connection with the audience again.
Three days later, he called the professor. "My answer is yes."
On the other end of the line, he could hear the professor's smile. "I knew you would say yes. Welcome home, maestro."
Philip began to prepare. Every evening after work, he played for hours. His hands, which had spent years carrying boxes, now rediscovered their true nature.
Meanwhile, Catherine knew nothing of this. She had resumed her work, but with a different approach. She treated her employees with respect, saying "thank you" and "please." She truly listened when people spoke.