Dr. Martinez smiled. "I think we can work with that. You're not a typical student anymore, Maya. We understand that. What if we created a customized program? You'd work with private instructors, complete your required coursework, but have the freedom to maintain a limited performance schedule."
"That could work," Maya said slowly. "I'd want Professor Chen as my primary instructor, if she's willing."
"She's already asked to work with you. Said she's been waiting two years for you to come back."
The morning of the concert, Maya woke up at 5:30, hours before her alarm was set to go off. She'd barely slept, her mind racing through every possible disaster: What if she forgot the music? What if her hands cramped up? What if the audience expected the viral video performance and was disappointed by what she gave them tonight?
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the city wake up outside her window: car horns, a distant siren, someone's alarm going off in the apartment next door. Normal sounds for a normal day. Except this wasn't a normal day at all.
Her phone showed dozens of good-luck messages: her mother, her brothers, friends from the conservatory, even some of her former coworkers from the Grand View estate. Tommy had sent a GIF of someone playing piano with the caption: "You got this."Dr. Chen had written simply: "Trust your preparation. Trust yourself."