The last box weighs twice as much as the others. I slice through the tape and lift out my amp—a vintage Fender Twin Reverb that’s been with me since my first paying gig. Beneath it, my electric guitar rests in its case: a custom Stratocaster built by a luthier in Fullerton who charged me three months’ rent but delivered an instrument that sounds like molten gold through the right speakers.
I set up both guitars by the windows, where the morning light streams in golden and warm. The Martin leans against the wall like she belongs here. The Strat waits on its stand, patient and ready.
My phone buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call. Zara’s name fills the screen.
“Please tell me you didn’t drive all night,” she says before I can get a word out. Behind her, I catch glimpses of her home studio—gold records on the walls, family photos scattered across her desk, the organized chaos of someone who makes music for a living.
“I got some sleep . . .” Another lie, but a harmless one.
“Darian.” Her voice carries a particular mix of exasperation and love that only older sisters master. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks. Really needed to hear that this morning.”
“I’m serious. When’s the last time you ate something that didn’t come from a gas station?”
I consider the beef jerky and energy drinks that sustained me from California to Tennessee. “Define ‘real food.’”
“Oh my God.” She disappears from frame for a second, then returns with a coffee mug that readsWorld’s Okayest Mom—a gift from her stepdaughters. “There’s a place called Mas Tacos two blocks from you. Rosa makes the best breakfast burritos in all of Nashville. Promise me you’ll go there today.”
“I promise.”
“Good. Now show me the apartment.”
I flip the phone around, giving her a tour of my new life: the small kitchen with its vintage appliances, the living area with my guitars of course, the view from the window that overlooks a neighborhood coming to life. A woman walks past carrying a violin case. A man in paint-splattered clothes sets up an easel on the sidewalk across the street.
“It’s perfect. I love it. Benny’s amazing. Did he tell you, you can paint? He said it in front of Stormy, so she’s excited. She wants to paint your walls,” Zara says when I turn the camera back to my face. “It’s small, but perfect. I know I said that already. I’m just happy you’re here. The girls are too. And Levi. I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”
“It’s fine. Everything’s fine, Z. I met Benny already, and you know I don’t care about the color of my walls. I just need a place to sleep.”
“Small means cozy. Small means you can’t hide from yourself in too many rooms.” Her expression grows serious. “And this is temporary until a house that you love comes on the marketor you decide to buy land and build.” Zara sighs. “How are you handling everything? Really?”
The question I’ve been avoiding since I loaded my car and drove away from the life I’d built. “I don’t know yet.” I’ve lost three of my best friends because I was told I had to choose between them and my sister. Actually, I lost part of my family because one member couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, and my sister deserved better. I will always choose her.
“That’s honest.”
“Honesty doesn’t pay rent.”
“Honesty gets you through the day. The rest figures itself out later. Besides, I know you invested, even if you are frugal. I know you have money, so stop being dramatic.” She shifts, and I hear Levi’s voice in the background asking about breakfast plans. “Besides, you’re not going to fail or ever fear you don’t have money to pay rent, Darian. You know what I think?”
Can’t wait to hear.
“What?”
“I think Nashville’s going to surprise you. Not in the touristy honky-tonk way, but in the way that matters. There’s real music here, D. The kind that doesn’t care about radio formats or market demographics.”
“I hope you're right.”
“I am. Trust me on this one.” She glances off-camera, then back. “I should go—Levi's making pancakes, and the girls will devour them all if I don't intervene. But call me later, okay? Let me know how the neighborhood feels.”
“Will do. Love you, Z.”
“Love you too, little brother.”
After we hang up, I sit in the quiet apartment and let her words settle. Outside, my new city continues its slow awakening—coffee shop employees unlocking doors, joggers stretchingagainst lampposts, the distant sound of someone practicing piano scales through an open window.
I reach for the Martin and settle into my favorite chair I shipped to Z from California. My fingers find the strings without conscious thought, muscle memory guiding them through a progression I’ve been carrying for weeks. It started as nothing more than a feeling—the musical equivalent of homesickness, except I wasn’t sure what home I was missing.
But here, in this small room with morning light painting geometric patterns on the floor, the progression sounds different. More complete. Like it’s been waiting for this exact space, this particular quality of silence.
