Jayden shrugged. "For something."
He wasn't sure honesty mattered. Nothing he said seemed to matter to anyone these days.
The man didn't press. He just nodded like he understood more than he should. His gaze drifted toward the tall academy building behind them, its windows glowing with warm light—the kind that only came from money, old money, polished money. Inside, parents were probably celebrating with their kids: jackets draped over chairs, hot chocolate steaming in paper cups, voices rising with pride.
Out here, the cold felt sharper.
The man followed Jayden's earlier glance toward the school gates. "They rejected you?"
Jayden swallowed. His voice cracked as he whispered, "They didn't even give me a chance."
A gust of wind cut through the street, whipping dead leaves around their feet. Jayden blinked against the cold and the memory that clawed back up his throat. He hadn't wanted to relive it, but the man's question opened the door.
His mind slipped back to three hours earlier. The academy's lobby had gleamed like a museum: marble tiles, gold railings, students in tailored uniforms drifting up wide staircases. Jayden had stood among them with his frayed backpack, the zipper broken on one corner, his violin case patched with tape. He'd tried his best to make himself smaller, invisible, the way he always did when he felt out of place.
A receptionist barely glanced at him before saying, "Auditions downstairs. Please wait until you're called."
He waited almost an hour. No one spoke to him. Parents whispered behind manicured hands. When they finally called his name, he walked into a room of strangers who evaluated him the way people examine spoiled produce in a grocery store: quickly, with little interest, with an unspoken assumption that something was wrong.
Jayden remembered raising the violin, trying to steady his breath. He'd practiced for weeks. He'd skipped lunch to squeeze in extra hours at the community center before they closed. He wanted this so badly that his chest ached every time he imagined himself walking through those academy doors as a real student.
But the room didn't want him.
He played eight bars. Just eight.
The panelist in the middle tapped her pen twice and said, "Thank you, Jayden. We've heard enough."
A parent had been lingering near the doorway. She leaned toward another, whispering, "They're letting anyone try now. This is ridiculous."
Anyone. Ridiculous.
Those words burned hotter than anything else. Outside, Jayden had forced himself not to cry as he passed the front gates, but his throat felt like it was closing.