Maya nodded. She gathered her things and walked to the door. Before she left, she turned back. "Dr. Holloway?"
"Yes?"
"I am glad I did not walk away that day. I am glad I asked for sixty more seconds."
He smiled, his eyes bright with something that looked like pride. "So am I, Maya. So am I."
The day of the concert arrived faster than Maya expected. One moment she was counting down the days, and the next, she was standing backstage at Carnegie Hall wearing a beautiful black dress that Professor Vasquez had helped her choose, her heart beating so hard she could feel it in her throat.
The backstage area was busy with people: stage managers spoke into headsets; technicians checked lights and sound equipment; someone handed Maya a glass of water, which she accepted with trembling hands. Through a gap in the curtains, she could see the audience filing into their seats.
The hall was enormous, bigger than anything she had ever seen. Row after row of red velvet chairs stretched back into shadows. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting warm golden light over everything. The walls were covered in ornate decorations, carved wood and gold leaf—centuries of history built into every corner.
This was Carnegie Hall: the same stage where the greatest musicians in the world had performed, where legends had been made and careers had been launched; where tonight, Maya Chen—a girl from a small apartment in Detroit who had practiced on cardboard keyboards and borrowed pianos—would play.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to find Dr. Holloway standing behind her.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Terrified," Maya admitted.
"Good. That means you care." He smiled. "Remember what we talked about. This is not about the audience. This is not about the critics. This is about you and the music. Nothing else matters."