Nia wrote that down.
Amaya rolled her eyes.
Attention brought opportunities.
And weirdness.
Invitations.
Interviews.
Adults asking what conservatory she planned to attend at thirteen.
One woman asked whether she hoped to become “the next Alicia Keys.”
Amaya answered:
“I was thinking Amaya Reed.”
The clip circulated.
Evelyn sent it to Rachel with:
Good answer.
Rachel replied:
Do not make this about you.
Evelyn laughed.
By then they had become something close to friends.
Still arguing.
Still unequal in influence.
But Rachel no longer softened every disagreement.
Evelyn no longer threatened to leave meetings when she lost.
Progress.
Evelyn’s wealth remained.
That was another thing no apology altered.
She owned three homes.
Sat on boards.
Had access to city leaders.
Her mistakes carried institutional weight because people moved when she spoke.
That mattered.
She began thinking about it more seriously.
Charles had understood power differently.
He enjoyed walking into rooms where nobody recognized him.
Evelyn once thought this charming.
Now she saw another side.
He liked learning how people behaved before status changed the interaction.
At sixty-six, she began reducing her foundation role.
Not disappearing.
Letting others lead.
She funded an endowment for instrument access, but did not name it after herself.
Rachel laughed.
“Growth.”
“Charles already has enough things named after him.”
“Also true.”
She served on the finance committee.
No chair.
No veto.
She discovered meetings continued when she disagreed.
Shocking.
Amaya entered high school.
At fourteen, she nearly stopped composing.
Not piano.
Composition.
She said every new piece felt like somebody was waiting for “The Quiet Between Trains” again.
Leonard understood.
First success could become a cage.
“What if I never write anything better?”
he asked.
Amaya frowned.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You write music?”
“Occasionally badly.”
She laughed.
Then:
“I don’t know.”
Leonard said:
“Then write something worse on purpose.”
“What?”
“Bad piece.”
“Ten minutes.”
“No revisions.”
“Use a stupid instrument.”
Amaya stared.
“That is the worst assignment you’ve ever given me.”
“Excellent.”
She wrote a four-minute piece for piano, toy xylophone, and recorded microwave beeps.
It was terrible.
She loved making it.
Something loosened.
Then she wrote again.
Not for competition.
Just sound.
At fifteen, she composed a choral work based on interviews with Chicago train operators and station employees.
At sixteen, a youth orchestra performed one of her pieces.
At seventeen, she was accepted to three conservatories and two universities.
Everyone expected Juilliard.
She chose Northwestern.
Close to home.
Strong music.
Also allowed her to study urban history, an interest that had grown from train rides with Marcus.
People asked why she stayed in Chicago.
She hated the question.