Ada and Maya practiced a little song for the station’s quiet hour. Ada hummed the tune; Maya tapped a gentle rhythm on a wooden box.
At first, Maya tapped on every sound she heard. Ada’s tune became hard to follow beneath all the tapping.
“Could we leave some room?” Ada asked.
Maya stopped, embarrassed. She had thought doing more would make her a better partner.
Ada sang the tune once without accompaniment. Maya listened for the parts that felt like resting places. Then she tapped only at the start of each short line.
The tune became easier to hear. Ada left a small pause at the end, and Maya let her hands rest instead of filling it.
Comet listened from a cushion. “I like the quiet part,” he said.
They practiced one more time, taking turns noticing what worked. Ada softened her loudest note. Maya slowed the taps until they fit.
At the quiet hour, travelers listened while the friends played. There was no rush to clap before the last pause had finished.
Maya put the wooden box away carefully. The song had not needed her to disappear, and it had not needed her to be everywhere. Her part mattered because she listened to how it joined Ada’s.
On the walk home, the tune returned in their memories, carrying its little space of silence with it.