Yoongi nods, letting himself be led along. "Yeah," he says softly. "I always think she is. I'm always — if I'm not playing for you, I'm playing for her, I think." He's in there, too, of course, but that's a given, he thinks, that all the music is for himself, too. But in his head, so often, there's an audience comprised of the people who matter most to him. His mother would be proud, he thinks. There were times it was tempting to give up music, and sometimes he did, on and off, the memory of her loss too fresh, too painful. He keeps at it, though; the joy outweighs the grief. She would be happy to know he still plays, that he's taken the thing she loved and kept it with him always. Kept her with him.

"But when it's our parents," he says, "I don't know if it matters if they're good. Just that they try." It's enough, he thinks, whether it was off-key or not, that Jungkook's father wanted to sing to him. He can only imagine the man must have loved his son so much, the way Yoongi's mother loved him. The way they'll love their children when they start a family. The effort, he thinks, means infinitely more than the skill behind it. "He must have loved you a lot."