The building’s front buzzer sounded.
Everyone froze.
Anna looked toward the hallway.
The buzzer sounded again.
Mason’s hands closed into fists at his sides, not with anger but with the effort of remaining still.
“I can’t do this,” he said.
Henry stepped beside him.
“You don’t have to.”
“What if he leaves?”
“Then we find another way.”
“What if he doesn’t believe me?”
“He will see the records.”
“What if he does believe me?”
Henry had no answer.
The question was more frightening than rejection.
Anna went to the door.
They heard quiet voices in the hallway, followed by slow footsteps approaching the office.
A man appeared in the doorway.
He looked to be in his early forties, with dark hair touched by gray at the temples. A worn leather music case hung from one shoulder. He held no flowers, no gifts, and no carefully prepared speech.
He looked like someone who had crossed the city while trying not to hope.
His gaze moved first to Anna, then Henry, then the baby carrier against Henry’s chest.
Finally, he saw Mason.
The music case slipped from his shoulder and struck the floor.
Neither of them spoke.
Mason’s breathing became shallow.
Without realizing it, he began humming the melody that had calmed Nora on the plane.
The stranger’s face changed.
He completed the next four notes.
Mason stopped.
The man’s eyes filled with recognition and disbelief.
