"Twice," Nia said. "At my teacher's old college. I know not to pull on the lid, and I don't put anything on the strings."
"That's a good start," he replied. "Our afternoon pianist can't get through security because her incoming flight was diverted. That means this piano isn't scheduled again until six. I can authorize ten minutes if your mother stays nearby and we keep the space clear."
Margaret's lips parted. "Daniel, if other guests ask to play—"
"We'll handle their requests by the same guidelines," he said. "That's why we have them."
Camille put a hand over Nia's fingers, suddenly trembling in hers. "Are you sure, honey? You don't have to prove anything to anybody in here."
"I know," Nia said. "But I want to hear it."
There was no triumphant procession to the piano. Daniel unlocked the protective keyboard cover, checked the bench, and asked a server to move a tray of glasses away from the instrument. Nia set her folded score on the stand and adjusted the bench until both feet reached the pedals comfortably. It was slightly too high, so Daniel brought a firm foot support from the storage closet, the sort the visiting pianist sometimes used for younger students during community events.
Margaret remained beside the piano, watching Nia's hands as if waiting for a mistake that would confirm her doubts. Nia felt the urge to begin with the fastest piece she knew, something bright enough to make the room regret underestimating her.
But that was not how she had learned to play. Mrs. Whitaker had once stopped her in the middle of a showy passage and asked, "Are you telling a story, or are you trying to win an argument?" Nia had said she didn't know. Her teacher told her to find out before she touched the keyboard again.
So Nia opened Between Departures instead. She rested her wrists above the keys and took one slow breath. The first four notes were almost too soft for the lounge, a small rising phrase followed by an answer that refused to settle. Underneath, the left hand began a steady pattern like footsteps in an empty hallway. At the end of the line, she waited through a silence so brief that anyone not listening might have mistaken it for hesitation.
But the room was listening. The man beside the window stopped scrolling through his phone. The coffee machine hissed and then fell quiet. Arthur Greene folded his newspaper and laid it face down, his gaze fixed not on the girl but on the shape of the sound she was making. Through the glass, planes kept moving across the airfield, but inside the lounge the slow melody seemed to have made a place of its own.