Rafe noticed all of it.
He had spent enough years riding across the country to recognize the subtle language of judgment.
But he ignored it and moved quietly toward the concert hall.
The recital had already begun when he slipped into the back row.
On stage, a boy in a tuxedo played Chopin with impressive technical skill while the audience listened politely.
Rafe watched the piano instead of the performer.
His eyes followed the movement of the hands across the keys.
For a brief moment his expression changed.
There was recognition there.
Memory.
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