Page 58 of Stolen Harmony

I moved to her side and listened to her attempt. The string was wound so tight it was about to snap. “Let's bringthat down a little,” I said, gently loosening the tuning peg. “Music isn't about force. It's about finding the right balance.”

She nodded solemnly, like I'd just revealed the secret of the universe. Kids had that way of making everything feel profound, even the simple act of tuning a guitar.

A little girl in the front row, Emma something, tilted her head up at me. Her dark eyes flashed with mischief and focus in equal measure, a look so much like pictures I'd seen of Elaine as a teenager that my chest gave a slow, quiet ache. The resemblance was uncanny: the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she chewed her bottom lip when concentrating.

“Can you play 'Wonderwall'?” she asked.

I smiled despite the tightness in my throat. “How about we start with 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' and work our way up to saving the world through Oasis covers?”

She giggled, and the sound was pure joy. Kids didn't carry the weight of disappointment yet, didn't know that dreams had expiration dates or that talent wasn't always enough.

“Mr. Grant,” called out Stephen, a boy in the back who'd been struggling with his pick all morning, “my dad says you used to be famous.”

“Your dad's a generous man,” I said, moving to help him adjust his grip. “I used to know some people who were almost famous.”

“That's not the same thing.”

“No, it's not. But sometimes being part of the story is better than being the whole story.”

The teacher, Mrs. Rockford, smiled from where she sat grading papers. She'd been doing this for fifteen years, had that particular brand of patience that came from understanding that every child was carrying something, even if they didn't know what it was yet.

As the class wound down, a cluster of kids crowded aroundme, eager questions tumbling out about the guitars, the strings, the songs they wanted to learn. Their enthusiasm was infectious, reminding me why I'd started doing these volunteer sessions in the first place.

“I want to be a musician,” announced Tyler, a serious kid with thick glasses and a cowlick that defied all attempts at control. “Like the guy who owns the recording studio.”

I kept my expression carefully neutral, the same face I'd perfected over months of these visits. The kids knew me as Mr. Grant, the volunteer guitar teacher, nothing more. I'd been careful never to mention my connection to Harbor's End Music Production, never to let slip that their weekly lessons were funded by the same man they were talking about with such admiration.

It was easier this way. Simpler. Here, I could just be someone who loved music and wanted to share it, not the widower who'd built a studio as a monument to grief, not the man whose name was on the business license they'd probably never seen.

These kids didn't know the story, didn't understand the weight of what they were asking. To them, I was just the guitar teacher who showed up once a week with instruments and patience.

I swallowed carefully before managing a smile. “You could be better than him.”

“Were you friends with him?”

“We knew each other,” I said. “He was... he was trying to help people make music.”

“Did he make good music?”

“I think he tried to.”

Mrs. Rockford caught my eye and nodded toward the clock. Time to wrap up before the kids started getting restless and someone inevitably tried to use a guitar as a weapon.

“Alright, musicians,” I said, standing up and clapping my hands once. “Time to put the instruments away. Remember what we talked about: practice doesn't make perfect, practice makes progress.”

They groaned in unison, the universal sound of children being asked to transition from something fun to something less fun. But they filed out obediently, chattering about what they'd learned, already making plans for next week's session.

When the last child left, I packed up slowly, reluctant to step back into the rest of the day. These Wednesday afternoons had become my anchor, the one part of the week that felt genuinely meaningful. Kids didn’t lie about whether music mattered to them. They either lit up when they heard it or they didn’t, and their honesty was refreshing after years of navigating adult emotions that came wrapped in layers of subtext and self-protection.

“They adore you,” Mrs. Rockford said, gathering her papers. “Emma asked me yesterday if you were coming back. I think she’s got a little crush.”

“She’s good for my ego,” I said, but my heart wasn’t really in the joke.

Mrs. Rockford just laughed, shaking her head. “Don’t let it go to your head. Last month she was convinced she was going to marry the mailman.”

I smiled, the warmth of it lingering as I stacked the last sheet music into my bag. The sunlight outside had faded to that late-afternoon gold that made the classroom look softer, almost forgiving. For a few minutes, the weight in my chest felt lighter.

Dr. Maren Fields's office was a warm contrast to the cold street. Plants in every corner, shelves lined with books that looked likethey'd actually been read, soft amber light from table lamps that made everything feel more intimate than a standard medical office had any right to be.