Lily starts playing again, something I don’t recognize. Original, probably. She’s been writing more, filling notebooks with lyrics and chord progressions.
“Play that again,” I say, setting the plates down.
She does. There’s something raw in the melody. Unpolished but real.
“You write that?”
“Yesterday.” She stays focused on her fingers. “Still working out the bridge.”
“Mind if I . . .” I gesture to the guitar.
She hands it over. I play through what she showed me, then add a variation on the bridge, borrowing from an old blues progression but twisting it. Lily watches my fingers.
“That works,” she says. “Can you show me?”
I walk her through it slowly, positioning her fingers on the frets. Rye keeps cooking but watches us in the microwave door reflection.
“Try it from the top,” I say, handing the guitar back.
Lily plays through the whole piece with the new bridge. It’s rough in places, her fingers still learning the transitions, but the structure is solid.
“What do you think?” she asks Rye.
“I think you’re gonna need a bigger notebook.”
The pancakes are perfect. Fluffy, edges crispy, with real maple syrup. We eat standing around the island, passing the syrup between us.
“Can we play more music later?” Lily asks. “Like we did last week?”
She means the three of us in the home studio Rye set up in the spare room. We’ve been messing around in there. Nothing serious, just playing.
“I’m in,” Rye says, licking syrup off her thumb. “Darian?”
“Yeah.”
After breakfast, we head to the spare room studio. Basic recording equipment, a keyboard, enough space for the three of us. Lily brings her guitar, Rye takes the keyboard, I pick up the bass. We don’t discuss what to play. Lily starts with a simple progression, Rye adds harmony, and I find the bass-line underneath.
It’s messy at first. We clash on tempo changes, step on each other’s phrases. But something works in the imperfection. This isn’t about performance. It’s just us.
Lily hums a melody over the music. Wordless but expressive. Rye harmonizes and their voices blend. I keep the bass-line steady, letting them wander.
We play for an hour, maybe more. Songs blend together, originals mixing with covers, jazz becoming rock becoming blues. At some point we’re playing one of my old songs but it’s different. Lily’s guitar work makes it hungrier. Rye’s keys add complexity it never had.
“That was good,” Lily says when we stop.
She’s right. But more than good, it was honest. Three people making music because they want to.
Lily heads upstairs to shower. Rye stays at the keyboard, fingers moving over the keys without pressing them.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Just . . . this.” She gestures at the room, the instruments. “I didn’t think I’d have this again.”
After a loss, you don’t imagine rebuilding. You survive. You go through motions. You don’t expect to find yourself making music with people who matter.
I set the bass aside and pull her up from the keyboard bench and into my lap as I sit on the old couch Rye moved into the studio. She fits against me, her head between my shoulder and neck.
“You know what you are?” I say into her hair.
