Without looking away from Henry, Mason began humming again.
The melody was soft and simple, only a few notes repeated in a slow pattern.
Henry felt his breath catch.
He knew that song.
Claire had hummed it while folding tiny clothes in Nora’s nursery. She had sung it under her breath during late-night drives and once while standing barefoot in the kitchen, one hand resting on her pregnant belly.
Henry had asked her what it was called.
She had smiled and said, “I don’t know. It’s just something my mother used to sing.”
Mason stopped humming when he noticed Henry’s expression.
“Where did you learn that melody?” Henry asked.
“My mother.”
“What was her name?”
Mason paused.
“Rachel Brooks.”
The name meant nothing to Henry, yet the room suddenly felt smaller.
“Did Claire know your mother?”
“She said she did.”
“Said?”
“My mother died two years ago. Claire came to the community center after one of my performances. She asked my teacher if she could speak to me.”
Mason adjusted Nora’s blanket before continuing.
“At first, I thought she was another donor. People sometimes came to watch us play, took pictures, and talked about giving opportunities to kids who needed them. Most of them never came back.”
“But Claire did.”
“Every Saturday.”
Henry looked at the photograph again.
“What did she want from you?”
“Nothing.”
“Everyone wants something.”
Mason’s eyes met his then, steady and unexpectedly mature.
“Maybe that’s true in your world.”
The answer carried no insult, but Henry felt it.
He had spent years judging people by what they wanted from him—access, money, influence, approval. Claire had often told him that his caution protected him from dishonesty but sometimes blinded him to sincerity.
He looked at Nora, peaceful in the arms of a boy he had met less than an hour ago.
“Tell me what she said about your mother.”
“Not much at first. She asked what I remembered.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That my mother worked at a small bookstore. That she sang when she cooked. That she hated driving in snow and always carried peppermints in her coat pocket.”
Mason’s voice grew quieter.
“She got sick when my little sister, Grace, was a baby. I took care of Grace a lot while my mother was going through treatment. That’s why I know how to hold babies.”
Henry remembered Mason’s earlier words.
I just know what it feels like when someone important is gone.
