“In my venue. Playing piano with a woman you barely know.” Her voice carries a hint of teasing, but her eyes remain serious. “That doesn’t sound like someone who’s giving up.”
She’s right, and we both know it. If I were giving up, I’d be in my apartment working through that bottle of whiskey I bought but haven’t opened. Instead, I’m sitting beside her on a piano bench, our bodies creating heat while our hands create something that sounds like hope set to melody.
“Your turn,” I say.
“What?”
“Tell me about your song. The one you were working on when I walked in.”
Something closes in her expression—not rejection, exactly, but the careful withdrawal of someone who’s learned to protect the soft parts of herself.
“It’s nothing. Just something I was fooling around with.”
“Bullshit.” I let her hear her own directness reflected back. “You don’t play like that when you’re just fooling around. You play like that when you’re trying to solve something.”
The smile fades, replaced by something rawer. For a moment, she looks like she might answer. Like she might tell me what it costs to manage other people’s dreams while keeping your own locked away. Instead, she stands up quickly, putting distance between us.
“I should probably lock up. It’s getting late.”
I stand up, immediately missing the warmth of her presence. “Right. Of course.”
She starts gathering the spread-out sheets of music. I catch her wrist, not grabbing, just touching. Just enough contact to make her look at me.
“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly, “that thing you were working on? It’s beautiful. And it’s not nothing.” I don’t wait for her to respond and leave, giving back the space I put myself in without permission.
rye
. . .
Music screamsthrough the sound system of The Songbird. Loud, screeching wails of a singer who likely has the sorest throat when he’s done performing. Instead of going out to the main part of the bar, I turn into my closet sized office and drop my bag on to my desk. The force causes the papers to shift, exposing the edge of a notebook. I sigh, knowing damn well I’m going to have to track down the musician who left it here last night.
I sit down and move my bag to the floor before reaching for the worn leather cover. I’ve lost count of how many of these I’ve seen, found, and returned. There’s even a box behind the bar of these, lost and never found. For me, if I lost my journal of songs and notes, I’d be beside myself. Tearing every inch of my house, car, and guitar case apart to find it, and retracing my steps. These books are liquid gold and dangerous if they end up in the wrong hands.
Turning the cover to the first page, my hopes dim at the empty line where it says this book belongs to. A name should be there. It’s what I tell Lily all the time: Write your name. Lyricsare prized possessions. They’re your thoughts, actions, and the reactions of those around you.
With this one being blank, the only step is to toss it in the lost and found box with the other forgotten items musicians leave behind.
I turn the page instead.
The first few pages contain chord progressions in handwriting I don’t recognize. It’s clean, careful letters that spell out musical thoughts in a language even non-songwriters can read. Nothing earth shattering or a song I remember from last night’s session. After years of being in this business, I tend to remember most of everything I heard from the night before. It’s almost as if those songs play on repeat while I’m sleeping.
I continue to flip, reading a verse here and there, until page seven punches the air from my lungs.
Found myself in a city of second chances
Where the music cuts deeper than the pain
Where you can start over with nothing but the truth
And someone else’s abandoned refrain
My melody. The one I worked on two nights ago whenhewalked in. The tune I’ve hummed for weeks without finding words that fit. Except here they are, written in Darian’s handwriting, transformed into something beyond my imagination.
The chorus builds on the harmony he played that night:
She left her song unfinished in a room that holds too many secrets
But some melodies refuse to die
