Harrison's eyebrows shot up. The accompanist's hands froze.
"I'd like to try something different."
"This audition was specifically designed to—"
"I know. To see if I can face my worst moment and come out the other side." I stepped closer to the phone, letting Harrison see my face clearly. "But I've learned something these past two weeks. Performance isn't about conquering demons. It's about sharing something true."
I thought of my grandmother at her Steinway, sheet music open to her favorite show.Anything Goeson the music stand, worn soft from years of playing.
"There's a song fromAnything Goes—'All Through the Night.' Do you know it?"
Harrison's expression shifted from surprise to something more challenging to read. "Cole Porter. Not typically an audition piece."
"It was my grandmother's favorite. She said it captured everything difficult about loving someone—the vulnerability, the choice to stay open even when it's terrifying. I want to sing it for you. Not to show off technique. To show you who I've become."
The silence stretched. I watched Harrison's face, waiting for dismissal, for the professional mask to snap back into place.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair. "Very well. David, do you know it?"
The accompanist nodded.
The first notes floated through my phone's speaker—that simple, devastating melody. I closed my eyes and let myself remember. Grandma's hands on the keys. Her voice, not trained but warm, singing about loving someone too much, in spite of yourself. How she'd catch my grandfather's eye during the bridge and smile like they were the only two people in the world.
When I opened my mouth, I didn't perform. I remembered.
I sang about wanting someone so profoundly that it made you vulnerable. The melody required no vocal pyrotechnics—only honesty. It was the truth of what it meant to let someone in, knowing they could hurt you, and choosing them anyway.
I thought about Ben in the workshop, carrying that cherry wood for days. The mark his hands had carved without knowing—belonging, home, wherever you're meant to be.
The final phrase arrived, and I let it float into the darkness without pushing or reaching for effect. It was a simple declaration of someone who'd finally understood what they wanted.
Silence.
Harrison leaned close enough to his camera that I could see flecks of gold in his gray eyes.
"Well." He cleared his throat. "That was unexpected."
"Sir?"
"You understand that wasn't what I asked for." His voice was strange—rougher than his usual polish. "You've essentially failed this audition by any technical measure."
My heart clenched, but I held my ground. "I know."
"And yet." Harrison shook his head slowly. "That was something I don't often see. You weren't singing to impress me. You were singing to someone specific. Someone who matters."
I didn't deny it.
"The touring company would be lucky to have you," Harrison continued, "but I don't think that's what you need anymore. Is it?"
The question hung in the air. A sharp chime cut through the theater—not my phone, but actual sleigh bells, clear and pure in the winter night. Through the high windows, I spotted a flash of movement against the stars.
"What was that?" Harrison asked.
I barely heard him. I knew that sound now.
"I'm sorry," I said, turning back to the screen. "You're right. I've found something here that Broadway can't match."
"The small-town Santa role?" There was no judgment in his voice.
