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He lifted his head, turning his sightless eyes toward the silent crowd.

“There’s more,” he said, his voice surprisingly strong. “More music.”

“The tapes… there were dozens of them. Pieces I’ve never heard anywhere else.”

Randall’s breath caught in his throat. “Arthur’s other compositions? You know them?”

Terrence nodded. “I know all of them.”

In that moment, the entire room understood. Arthur Finch’s genius hadn’t died in that car crash. It had been protected. It had been nurtured in secret by a boy who learned his father’s heart through his fingertips.

Randall Voss looked out at the sea of faces, at the reporters who were now scribbling furiously, at the patrons who had come for a stuffy gala and were now part of a legend.

He knew what he had to do.

“Tonight’s fundraiser was for a general arts scholarship,” Randall announced, his voice booming with a renewed purpose. “But I’m changing that. Right now.”

“As of tonight, my foundation is officially establishing the Arthur Finch Legacy Grant, a full scholarship for gifted musicians who might otherwise never be heard.”

He smiled, tears welling in his eyes again. “It will be the single largest arts grant of its kind in the country. And its first recipient… is Terrence Finch.”