The piano was out of tune. Not badly. Just enough that Arianne noticed.
Lily didn't notice. She sat at the bench with her back straight, playing the same five notes over and over. C-D-E-F-G. Then back down. Each note deliberate, her small fingers pressing hard, the rhythm uneven but determined.
She'd asked to practice. No one had told her to. She'd finished breakfast, pushed in her chair, and announced she was going to "work on her music." The way she said it made Arianne think of herself at that age. Not the music. The posture. The decision to be good at something before knowing what good meant.
The ground floor study was warm. Morning light came through the east windows. The piano sat in the corner where it had been since delivery. Arianne had ordered it weeks ago, after she'd played for the first time in twenty years and Lily had asked to learn. She'd said, "She should decide for herself." And then she'd bought a piano.
