He glanced up. “This is for Stefan.”
It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t respond.
“Were you going to tell me?”
I shrugged. “Eventually.”
Karl closed the notebook. “Play it again.”
I frowned. “It’s not finished.”
“I didn’t ask for finished,” he said in a dry tone.
That was very Karl.
I turned back to the keys, and for a moment, I sat there, my fingers resting where they’d been before. Then I began to play.
This time, I didn’t think about it, didn’t question it, but let it unfold.
The opening bars—quiet, searching—gave way to something warmer, more certain, the shifts coming more naturally now, as if the piece already knew where it wanted to go, even if I didn’t.
I didn’t look at Karl while I played. I didn’t need to. I knew he was listening to every note.
When it ended, I let my hands fall away from the keys, and silence reigned once again.
“It’s good,” Karl said at last.
I snorted. “You used to critique more when I was your student.”
“Okay, then let me amend that. It’s honest.”
Oh.
I looked down at my hands.
“I didn’t mean it to be,” I said in a quiet voice. Then I glanced at him. “You’re reading a lot into a few pages of music.”
Karl met my gaze. “No, you’re putting a lot into them.” He studied me for a moment longer. “Will you play it for him?”
The question caught me off guard. “Maybe.”
Karl raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like a no.”
“It’s not finished,” I protested.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I let out a slow breath. “Not yet.”
Karl gazed at me. “But one day?”
I didn’t answer, but the idea settled somewhere in the back of my mind.
“Why aren’t you at Stefan’s place?”
I blinked. “Are you complaining because I’m here?”
“Not complaining, more surprised.”