Chapter Text
The smell of strong cleaning chemicals and pungent offers filled Schroeder’s nostrils.
His father sat in his wheelchair, eyes shut, with a sullen expression.
“Alright, Mr. Rogers, has there been any new pain or feeling on the right side of your body since we last met?” Dr. Gillium asked. He was a grey, worn-out man, the kind who looked like he’d been doing this job since before electricity.
He’d been treating Schroeder’s father for nearly fifteen years now, long enough that the whole exchange felt rehearsed.
Schroeder’s dad let out a low, irritated grunt as his eyes shot open. Not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he hated being asked the same question for the thousandth time. He then flicked his eyes toward Schroeder, a silent command he’d given since Schroeder was barely old enough to reach the exam chair.
Schroeder straightened, hands folded neatly like he’d been trained since childhood. “No, sir. No changes.”
Dr. Gillium hummed, scribbling on his clipboard with the same tired pen he always used. “Good. Stability is still a positive sign.”
Schroeder’s dad didn’t look convinced. He rarely looked anything in these appointments, just worn down, bored, and unimpressed with the universe.
“And sleep?” the doctor continued.
Another grunt. More annoyed this time.
Schroeder stepped in smoothly, his voice polite and steady. “It’s the same, sir. He wakes up multiple times during the night.”
His father shot him a sideways glance, the kind of look that said, don’t make this sound worse than it is. But he didn’t correct him.
Dr. Gillium nodded as if he’d expected that answer. “Restlessness isn’t unusual. After this long, the patterns tend to stay consistent.”
Schroeder’s dad muttered something under his breath — something bitter, but quiet. Years of this had stripped the sharpness off even his anger.
“And no sensation returning?” the doctor asked. “No tingling, pressure, or temperature difference?”
Schroeder answered for him. “No, sir. Nothing new.”
The doctor paused, giving the two of them a long, familiar look. He’d watched Schroeder grow from a quiet little boy into the well-mannered prodigy he was expected to be.
“Progress at this stage is slow,” the doctor said softly. “Sometimes static. But that doesn’t mean care is any less important.”
His dad didn’t react. After fifteen years, the words likely meant nothing to him.
Dr. Gillium closed the chart with a dull click. “We’ll continue the same routine. No regressions — that’s what matters.”
Schroeder nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Any questions today?” the doctor asked.
Schroeder looked at his dad, a habit, even though he already knew the answer. His father kept his eyes on the floor, shoulders stiff, lips pressed into a thin line.
“No, sir,” Schroeder said quietly. “We’re alright.”
The doctor stepped aside. “I’ll see you both next month.”
As the door clicked shut behind him, the room felt heavier, quieter, as if all the weight the doctor’s presence had kept suspended finally sank again.
Schroeder’s dad exhaled, long and tired, a sound Schroeder had grown up with.
Schroeder slipped the papers into the folder he always kept too neat, then moved behind the wheelchair. “Alright, Father,” he muttered, gripping the handles. “Let’s go home.”
As Schroeder pushed his dad down the hall, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. His dad didn’t talk much, just watched people pass by as if he was silently judging everyone’s posture.
“You handled that well,” his dad finally muttered, voice gravelly and low. “Gillium sure likes you.”
“He likes anyone who fills out their forms correctly,” Schroeder said. He tried to sound light, but it came out tense.
His dad’s eyes shifted slightly, not amusement, not warmth, just that measured acknowledgement he gave when something was technically true. “Accuracy matters,” he said. “Most people don’t bother with it.”
It wasn’t praise, exactly, more like a reminder of the standard.
Schroeder nodded once, jaw tight. “I’ve been doing it since I was nine,” The words slipped out sharper than he meant. “It’s not that hard anymore.”
His father didn’t comment on the tone, but his silence felt heavy, the kind that always made Schroeder straighten his posture just a little more.
“Still,” his dad finally said. The word landed flat, but firm. “You’re responsible.”
A beat.
“Most boys your age don’t hold it together this well.”
Most boys his age also weren’t pushing their paralyzed father through sterile hallways every month while pretending they weren’t collapsing under the pressure, but Schroeder didn’t say that. He just pushed a little too quickly, the wheels humming against the floor.
They reached the elevator. Schroeder pressed the button with a little more force than he meant to.
His dad cleared his throat, stiff and uneasy. “Your mother told me you’ll be hearing back from that school soon.”
Schroeder’s stomach dropped so fast he almost missed the elevator ding.
“Oh.” His voice wavered before he caught it. “Right. Yes.”
“Juilliard,” his dad said, and something old. Pride, maybe, or memory, warmed the edges of his tone. “They’d be lucky to have you.”
His mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile. “A Rogers in their halls again… I’d like to see that.”
Schroeder kept his eyes on the elevator doors. His reflection stared back at him, posture perfect, face stiff, looking way more put together than he felt. He nodded, small and automatic.
“Maybe,” he said. “Hopefully.”
His dad studied him for a moment. “Your technique is stronger than mine ever was. At your age, I… well.” He coughed, cutting off whatever thought he almost shared. “You should be proud. You’ve earned it.”
There it was.
The guilt hit him like a punch.
They stepped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft metal sigh.
His dad settled back, satisfied. Trusting. Proud in that quiet, understated way he never showed anyone else.
Meanwhile Schroeder felt like his lungs were folding in on themselves.
Because his acceptance hadn’t just failed to arrive.
The rejection email had hit his inbox four days ago.
And he still hadn’t told anyone.
The night before the recital, Schroeder’s room felt too clean. His sheet music was lined up on his desk in perfect rows, his metronome set neatly beside it, and his suit hung on the back of his door like it was watching him.
Someone knocked softly. His mother’s knock. Two taps, never three. She always tapped like she was entering a patient’s room instead of her son’s.
“Come in.” Schroeder said.
His mother stood in the doorway the second he closed his notebook. She always moved quietly, which made it hard to tell whether she wanted to check on him or catch him in the act of doing something wrong.
“You should be getting ready for tomorrow,” she said. Her voice sounded gentle at first, but he could hear the edge under it, the part she tried to hide when she was tired. “Your shirt is still wrinkled. And you haven’t practiced your opening piece today, have you?”
Schroeder blinked at her. “I practiced after school. Downstairs.”
She stepped farther inside, arms folded like she was hugging herself. She looked exhausted. He could see it in the way her shoulders dipped and the way her eyes kept losing focus before snapping back. Too many double shifts again. Too many nights coming home long after he was already pretending to be asleep.
“You always say that,” she said. The tiredness softened her tone for a moment. “I just want you to be ready. This recital means a lot for your father.”
He sat up straighter without even thinking about it. It was a habit. Something his body did whenever she talked like this, like his spine was trying to prove he wasn’t slipping.
“I know,” he said. “I’m ready.”
She studied him for a long moment. Her expression didn’t move much, but her eyes did. They scanned his face the same way she checked vitals at work. Precise. Searching.
“You’re talented,” she said quietly. “You know that.”
It almost sounded like praise. Almost.
But then her jaw tightened, and the shift happened. It was small, almost invisible. A nurse’s switch. A mother’s switch. Something sharp cracking through the tiredness.
“You cannot afford to mess this up.”
The words hit him harder than she seemed to realize. Maybe she realized, but pretended she didn’t. It was always hard to tell.
He nodded once. “I won’t.”
She let out a breath through her nose, not annoyed, not satisfied either. More like she was bracing herself.
“I’m going to iron your shirt after I take a quick shower,” she said. “Make sure everything you need is laid out. I do not want to scramble in the morning.”
“Okay,” he said.
She moved to leave, hesitated, then looked back at him. Something gentler flickered across her face for a second, like she wanted to touch his shoulder or say something. But she didn’t.
“Get some rest,” she said instead. “You look pale.”
Schroeder watched her close the door.
He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and pressed his palms to his knees. Tomorrow mattered. Not just to him. Not just to his mother.
It felt like the whole house was leaning on it.
…
Schroeder rested his forehead against the cool window of the car while the suburbs blurred by in slow streaks of grey and gold. It was too early for the sun to be this bright, and it felt like the whole world was awake except for him. His fingers lay curled on his lap, twitching once in a while like they were dreaming of a piano even though he wished they would stay still.
His dad sat in the backseat beside his wheelchair, hands resting stiffly in his lap. He wasn’t saying anything yet, which somehow made things worse. Schroeder could feel the weight of his stare even without turning around.
“You practiced the Mendelssohn last night,” his father finally said. His voice was too casual. “I heard you playing it slower than normal. Why were you doing that.”
Schroeder pressed his forehead lightly to the window. “I was just adjusting it.”
“You were adjusting it because you changed your mind about the original piece?”
Schroeder exhaled slowly. “Dad…”
“You should not be changing things the day before a competition.”
“But, I thought you wanted me to challenge myself, and—”
“You were up late last night,” his dad finally said. Not accusing. Just stating.
“I was doing homework,”
A pause. “You seem tired.”
“I’m fine.” Schroeder insisted.
Another pause, deeper this time. “Do not let nerves get in your way today.”
Schroeder nodded once, even though his pulse had been punching at his throat since sunrise. “I won’t.”
…
Inside, the air smelled like polished wood and old programs. A receptionist checked them in and pointed them toward the backstage hallway. Schroeder walked a few steps behind his parents, staring at the floor tiles. His legs felt light, almost shaky, and he hated that too.
Backstage was colder than the lobby. Other kids were warming up, some stretching their fingers, others whispering quick arpeggios under their breath. Schroeder felt like he was walking through a tunnel. The sound around him got thinner, then thicker, then thin again, like his brain couldn’t decide how much to let in.
He sat down on a wooden bench beside a rack of extra chairs. His heartbeat kept stepping out of rhythm. He rubbed his hands together, but they still felt wrong.
He couldn’t hear his parents anymore. They were somewhere behind him, talking to one of the volunteers about seating arrangements. He was glad he couldn’t hear. He didn’t want to listen to anything right now.
He just needed to breathe.
But each breath felt shallow.
He stared at his hands.
These were the same hands that played late into the night. Hands that used to move without him thinking. Hands that should have been familiar and steady.
Today they felt like strangers.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine pressing down the first key of the Mendelssohn. He could picture it. But he couldn’t feel it. Not in the way he was supposed to.
His throat tightened.
He looked behind him to see that his parents were gone.
He tried inhaling again, slower this time. It didn’t help. His chest felt too small for the amount of air he needed, like someone was shrinking it from the inside.
The room buzzed around him. Random notes drifted through the air. A kid down the hall kept stumbling over the same measure on a violin and the sound jabbed at Schroeder’s nerves each time. Another pianist was warming up on a keyboard that wasn’t even plugged in, tapping out rhythms on dead keys like it didn’t bother him at all. Schroeder wished he could be that kind of person, someone whose body didn’t betray them at the worst possible moment.
He pressed his palms against his knees.
Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.
But his thoughts weren’t listening.
What if he messed up the opening run? What if he started too soft? What if his left hand shook. What if his dad could see it from the audience? What if the judges marked him down instantly. What if the whole auditorium heard the mistake? What if one slip meant the rest of the piece collapsed like a bad tower of cards? What if he froze? What if his fingers got stuck? What if they felt like they felt right now? Wrong. Slow. Alien.
His stomach twisted so hard he had to hunch over a little.
He wiped his hands on his pants even though they weren’t sweating.
Maybe he should practice mentally. Just walk himself through the first few measures. But when he tried to hear the opening in his head, it came out warped and blurry, like someone had recorded it underwater. He tried to correct it, but the harder he focused, the more the notes faded into mush.
He swallowed, but his throat stayed dry.
He glanced down the hall, hoping for some kind of distraction, but that was a mistake. The stage door was half propped open and he could see a sliver of the wings. The piano was visible from where he sat. Just the corner of it. But even that was enough to make his heartbeat jolt.
It looked huge. Hungrier than usual. Like it had been waiting specifically for him.
He forced his gaze back onto his lap.
He wished he could go to the bathroom. Splash water on his face. Hide for a second. But his legs felt rubbery, and he wasn’t sure if standing would make the panic worse. He imagined getting up only for his knees to buckle, imagined the sound of his fall echoing across the backstage hall, imagined everyone turning to stare.
No. Sitting was safer.
He curled his fingers into loose fists and then opened them again. Over and over. The rhythm should have been soothing. It wasn’t.
He couldn’t tell how much time passed. Could have been minutes. Could have been an hour. His head was buzzing too hard to track anything.
Eventually, he noticed the lobby noise shifting. Program booklets rustling. People taking their seats. Judges moving into position. It was subtle, but the building itself seemed to change tone when the competition truly began.
Performers were being called one by one.
Piano.
Voice.
Strings.
It all blurred together.
When someone finally tapped his shoulder, he flinched so hard he nearly slid off the bench.
The stage manager stood over him. Clipboard tucked under her arm. Headset buzzed softly on her ear.
“Schroeder,” she said, gentle but clipped. “You’re performing soon.”
His pulse immediately spiked.
“How soon,” he managed.
“You’re next.”
His breath vanished. Just gone. Like someone punched it out of him.
Next.
He wasn’t ready. No part of him was ready. His hands felt like blocks. His brain felt detached, floating somewhere above him. His stomach felt like it had turned to liquid.
He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled. He grabbed the bench for balance and prayed the stage manager didn’t notice. She just nodded toward the hallway.
“You can follow me.”
He forced himself upright. Each step felt like he was walking through water that rose higher with every inch. He tried not to look at the stage, but he could hear the end of the current performer’s piece. The final notes were soft and graceful and landed exactly where they were supposed to.
His chest tightened even more.
“It’s time.”
The curtain parted just enough for him to step through, and suddenly he was in the light. But before he could even breathe, the announcer’s voice cut clean through the silence of the auditorium:
“Next, we have contestant number fourteen, Schroeder Rogers, seventeen years old, performing Mendelssohn. A nationally recognized young pianist and one of the most promising competitors in this year’s program.”
The words echoed.
Seventeen years old.
Nationwide pianist.
Promising.
Every syllable felt like it was pressing a thumb into his ribs.
Polite applause followed, crisp, expectant, far too loud.
Everything washed over him at once: the heat, the silence, the faint hum of the air vents. For a second he forgot how to move his legs.
He walked anyway.
One step.
Another.
Another.
He didn’t dare lift his head at first. He focused on the polished stage floor, the faint scratches where other chairs had been dragged. When he finally forced his chin up, ready to find the familiar outline of his parents in the front row—
They weren’t there.
His breath caught.
Seat after seat. Row after row.
Empty of them.
His chest tightened sharply. He scanned faster. Maybe he miscounted. Maybe they were on the other side. Maybe— maybe—
Then he saw her.
Not in the front, but a few rows back. Sitting straight, legs crossed, posture proud in a way that didn’t fit her age. Dark hair pinned neatly with a barrette. A navy dress with a white collar. Hands folded on her lap like she had rehearsed the pose in a mirror. Her expression was unreadable, not bored, not impressed, but focused. Like she was studying him, not the stage.
The seriousness on her face hit him like a punch.
He didn’t know why it scared him, but it did.
His throat closed.
His heartbeat stuttered.
The room tilted a little.
She shouldn’t have been here. She never came to these things. And yet here she was, looking at him with that same sharp, cutting perception she always had, he kind that made him feel exposed even when he wasn’t doing anything wrong.
His palms went cold.
The judge at the center of the table gave a polite nod, signaling him to take his seat.
He tried to move toward the piano, but his foot caught on nothing and he stumbled a little before catching himself. A few murmurs rippled through the audience. His ears rang.
He sat down too quickly, the bench creaking under the sudden weight. His knees were bouncing. His fingers hovered above the keys, but they felt miles away from him, like they belonged to someone else.
Don’t look.
Don’t look again.
He looked anyway.
Her eyes were still on him.
Something fragile inside him cracked.
His vision blurred for a second, and he blinked hard, but the panic stayed exactly where it was, thick in his throat, heavy in his chest, crawling down his arms like static.
His fingers touched the keys.
Nothing happened.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
The notes wouldn’t come.
The opening wouldn’t form.
Everything he memorized, drilled, repeated until it was muscle-deep… gone.
The judges were waiting.
The audience was waiting.
She was waiting.
He swallowed hard, a shaky, wet sound that the microphone probably picked up.
“I…” His voice cracked. He felt the heat climb up his neck. “I’m… sorry.”
A ripple of confusion moved through the crowd.
Schroeder stared down at the keys, but they shimmered weirdly in his vision, bright, foggy, warped. He shook his head, chest tightening, breath turning thin and sharp.
“I can’t—” he whispered, barely audible.
Then louder:
“I’m sorry.”
He pushed himself up so fast the bench screeched backward. Gasps fluttered through the room. His heartbeat was pounding so violently he thought he might throw up.
He turned away from the piano and practically stumbled off the stage, eyes burning, breath breaking apart in his chest. The curtain swallowed him up as soon as he crossed the line of light, and everything behind it exploded into whispers and shock.
But all he heard was the rush of blood in his ears.