A yellow minibus stopped in the gravel circle, and ten teenage children began climbing out, carrying violin cases and satchels of sheet music.

A tall woman with gray hair in a bun stepped out behind them—Dr. Sarah Jenkins, whom I had hired to direct the foundation’s educational program.

“Welcome to Hartwell House,” I said, walking down the steps to meet them.

A young boy with dark eyes and a violin case looked up at the grand facade of the house, his mouth slightly open.

“Do we really get to stay here?” he asked.

“For the whole summer,” I said, kneeling down to his eye level. “The music rooms are upstairs, and the gardens are yours to practice in.”

He smiled, clutching his case tighter.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

I watched Dr. Jenkins lead the children through the front doors, their laughter and excited chatter filling the foyer that had once been so cold and silent.

Thomas stood beside me, watching them go.

“Your mother would be very proud, Claire,” he said softly.

“She wanted this place to be full of life,” I said. “She hated how quiet it got after she became ill.”