That evening, I heard a few careful chords drifting from his bedroom.

He stopped, restarted, and stopped again.

It sounded nothing like the confident practice sessions I remembered.

Owen began to stand, perhaps intending to encourage him.

I touched his arm.

“Give him a minute.”

A little later the chords settled into a melody.

It was slow and unfinished, with spaces that seemed to matter as much as the notes.