Scarlett Athena found the note in her coat pocket on the bus ride home from the concert, and she could not read a single word of it. The paper was small and soft at the edges, like it had been folded and refolded for years before it reached her. The script ran in tight loops and hooks she had never seen in any book. Only three words sat in plain English among the shapes: tomorrow, save, them. She pressed the paper flat on her knee and stared at it until the streetlights blurred. Someone in that audience had slipped this into her coat while she sang. Someone who knew her voice was not normal. Scarlett had been waiting for that someone her whole life. At home she did what she always did after a performance. She sat on her bed with her notebook and wrote down everything: the song, the row where the stranger must have stood, the weight of the paper, the shape of each mark she could copy. In third grade she had sung one line of a Christmas carol and her teacher had sunk to the floor without a sound. At the spring concert two years ago her music teacher had cried through every verse. Her grandmother would not speak about any of it. Whenever Scarlett asked, the old woman touched the photo on the mantle, the one of Scarlett's great-grandmother in a long dress in a garden, and walked out of the room. Scarlett copied the strangest symbol from the note into the margin of her notebook. A loop with two hooks and a slash through the center. She had seen it before. She was sure of it. She went downstairs in her socks. The photo on the mantle had a heavy frame, and behind the frame her grandmother kept a flat stone the size of a saucer. Scarlett had asked about the stone once when she was eight and been told to leave it alone. She lifted it now. One side was smooth. The other side was carved. A heart sat at the bottom, and above it ran four lines of the same looping, hooked script that covered the note. The same loop with two hooks and a slash sat dead center. Scarlett laid the note beside the stone on the carpet. The marks matched. Her hands started to shake, and she felt her breath pull tight in her chest the way it did before her voice went loud on its own. She pressed her mouth shut. Upstairs, her grandmother's bedroom door was closed. Scarlett picked up the stone and the note, climbed the stairs, and knocked.