On her final night, the rain turned into a downpour. Julian met her at the airport, but he didn't bring flowers. He brought a large, rolled-up tube of parchment.
"I can't go with you," he said, his voice thick. "My firm... my life is here."
Maya nodded, a sad, knowing smile on her lips. "I know, Julian."
"But," he said, unrolling the paper. It wasn't a blueprint for a building. It was a map of Vienna, but he had redesigned the park near her conservatory. He had sketched in a series of small, glass pavilions—places where she could play her violin out of the rain, designed specifically to carry the acoustic frequency of her favorite key, G-major.
"I can't build it yet," he told her. "But I've already sent the designs to the city council there. I told them a world-class musician was coming, and she deserved a stage that lived up to her music."
Maya looked at the drawing, her fingers tracing the lines of his ink. "You built me a home before I even got there."