On a wet Tuesday in October, Noad set the booklet on his music stand and opened to a piece he had never quite finished. The townsfolk called it “The Harbor,” though the original title printed at the top said “Andante,” and the composer’s name felt both familiar and distant—an echo. He placed his fingers and let the first chord breathe. The sound filled the small kitchen, sliding over the sink, under the curtains, into the quiet.