Elena had brought a small tin of homemade cookies.

Owen had come directly from a long day repairing power lines and still wore the creased work jacket he reserved for winter calls.

He kept the program folded carefully in his palm as though it were an official document.

When Noah walked onto the stage, he glanced toward us.

I gave him a small wave.

He nodded and looked away, suddenly too old to be openly delighted by his parents’ presence and still young enough to check that we were there.

His guitar sounded richer than it had a year earlier.