Months later, we were back in Grandma’s old music room for the first time since the pool party.
The cello rested beside Lucy’s chair while she tightened her bow.
Outside, the pool was covered for the season.
Inside, the old stand was no longer empty.
Grandma sat near the window with her hands folded in her lap.
Lucy lifted the instrument under her chin.
She played the first phrase too fast.
Grandma raised one finger.
Lucy stopped.
“Again?” she asked.
Grandma nodded.
“Again.”
Lucy reset the bow and started from the beginning.
This time the note opened warm and low through the room, the same voice I remembered hearing before anyone put a price on it.
Grandma closed her eyes to listen.
Lucy watched her for the next cue.
And the cello, finally, was doing exactly what Grandma had intended when she gave it away: it belonged to a child who was learning how to make it sing.
