The final note faded like breath on glass, and for a moment, the room was still again.
Billy turned slightly on the bench, his knees brushing the wood, his fingers still resting loosely on his lap.
His gaze met Artur's across the room—soft, uncertain.
"Was that okay?" he asked, not quite confident, not quite afraid.
Artur pushed off the wall and crossed over, slow, unhurried steps on the old wooden floor.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he came to stand beside the piano, fingers trailing along its edge, eyes fixed on Billy like he was listening to something still playing.
"You always ask that," Artur said gently.
Billy tilted his head. "Ask what?"
"If it was okay."
Billy gave a small shrug, trying to pass it off lightly. "Well, maybe I like reassurance."
Artur's lips curved. "You don't need it. But I'll give it anyway."
He reached down and tapped one of the lower keys—an old, mellow note that rang warm and quiet.
