Stephen pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes.
The page did not erase the arguments. It did not prove Harold had secretly understood every reason his son stayed away from the instrument. It proved one smaller thing: at some point after those terrible teenage lessons, Harold had imagined making music with Stephen again.
That was enough to hurt differently.
Lucas waited until Stephen’s breathing slowed.
“Do you want to try the second line?” he asked.
Stephen looked horrified.
“Absolutely not.”
Lucas smiled. “Okay.”
“Not today.”
“Okay.”
Stephen folded the music carefully.
Before leaving the cemetery, he played one more note.
It cracked.
He laughed.
Anne laughed too.
Lucas found himself laughing with them, the three of them standing beside a grave in the rain while a broken note disappeared over the wet grass.
A week later, Stephen called the unit office asking for Lucas.
Lucas assumed something had gone wrong.
“I need a favor,” Stephen said.
“Okay.”
“Not a military favor. A trumpet favor.”
They met at a community center where Harold’s band used to rehearse.
Stephen brought the old case. Lucas brought his own instrument.
The room smelled like dust, cork grease, and old carpet. Music stands leaned against one wall. Harold’s chair was still in the second row because nobody had decided whether moving it would feel respectful or cruel.
Stephen stood beside it.
“I haven’t been in here since I was sixteen.”
“Want to leave?”
“No. Ask me again in ten minutes.”
Lucas did.
Stephen stayed.
