Walter lowered himself onto the bench and rested his hands above the keys for a long moment. Then he began a slow, aching melody that drifted through the marble lobby like warm light. Conversations stopped. A receptionist set down her phone. Douglas’s smirk faded as the music swelled, rich and impossibly delicate, each note landing exactly where it belonged. Upstairs, a glass door slammed open, and quick footsteps came down the staircase.

A silver-haired woman in a navy suit stopped halfway down, one hand gripping the rail, her eyes wide and wet. “That piece,” she whispered. “He wrote that piece.” It was Eleanor Harlow, the CEO. She walked to the piano and waited until the last note faded. Then she said, in a trembling voice, “Walter, I have looked for you for twenty-five years.”