THE CONTINUATION
That night, back in her Bloomsbury flat, Stella sat at the piano. Noah was visiting again, asleep in the spare room. From down the hall, she could hear his soft, even breathing—the sound of a child safe in sleep.
She played quietly, a simple progression of chords. C major to G7, suspended, resolving to F, then back to C. Not her mother’s four-note theme. Not her own nameless melody. Something new. Something that felt like both continuation and beginning.
Hunter came in, sat beside her on the bench. “How was it? The prison.”
“Hard. Good. Real.” She played the progression again. “One of the women said something. ‘Listening’s better than helping.’”
“She’s right.”
“I know.”
They sat in silence for a while, the last chord still vibrating in the air. Then Hunter said: “No
