The venue feels smaller in dim lighting, stripped of the magic that transforms it during performances. Twenty round tables crowd the space between the bar and the stage, each one bearing scars from years of elbows and drinks and dreams being discussed over cheap beer. A single microphone stands center stage, waiting for tomorrow’s batch of hopefuls.
I work my way toward the front, gathering bottles and wiping down surfaces that will be sticky again by this time tomorrow. We serve beer and wine only—nothing requiring more than thirty seconds to pour. This place exists for music, nothing more.
“Speaking of starting somewhere,” Jovie pauses in her glass washing, fixing me with the look that means she’s about to say something I won’t want to hear. “When’s the last time you played?”
My hands pause on the table I’m cleaning. “I play every day.”
“Not what I mean.”
She’s right. Playing lullabies for Lily doesn’t count. Neither does humming along to the radio while I balance books or absently strumming during sound checks. Jovie means real playing. The kind that opens something in your chest and lets strangers see inside.
“I manage this place. That’s enough music for me.”
Jovie snorts and instantly covers her mouth and nose, but it’s too late. I’m laughing and avoiding her question. “Rye Hayes, you couldn’t sell that story to a blind man.”
I move to the next table, scrubbing at a ring that probably won’t budge no matter how hard I attack it. The Songbird has seen better decades—paint peeling around windows, floorboards creaking their own percussion section, upholstery held together by stubbornness and duct tape. But it’s mine in every way that matters, even if the bank disagrees.
“Mama called earlier,” I say, changing the subject. “Wants to take Lily camp shopping this weekend.”
“That woman spoils your baby rotten.” Jovie’s tone suggests she thinks this is exactly as it should be. “How’s Lily feeling about fifth grade?”
“Excited. Terrified. Changes her mind every five minutes.” I spray cleaner on the bar and work my way down its length. “She’s been humming this tune for weeks. Something she made up.”
“Wonder where she gets that from.”
The comment hangs between us like smoke from a cigarette someone forgot to put out. Jovie doesn’t push—she never does—but her meaning settles into the space anyway. Lily’s musical gifts didn’t appear from nowhere. Talent like hers needs roots.
I finish at the bar and move toward the sound booth, checking connections and powering down equipment. The mixing board still bears scratches from the previous manager, a songwriter named Cole, who vanished one day, leaving only a note that read, “Gone to find my muse in Memphis.”
The cash register opens with its familiar scrape. Tonight’s take won’t cover much—Thursday nights never do—but it’ll keep the lights on another week. I count bills and separate coins while Jovie finishes stacking chairs, our movements falling into the choreography of three years working together.
“You heading straight home?” Jovie asks, hanging her apron on its hook.
“Need to check tomorrow’s schedule first.”
Jovie nods and gathers her purse, a leather creation large enough to smuggle instruments. “Tell Lily I said hello. And Rye?”
I look up from counting twenties. “Yeah?”
“That tune she’s been humming? You should listen to it. Really listen. Sometimes the next generation knows things we forgot.”
She lets herself out the back door, leaving me alone with her words echoing in the empty venue. The Songbird settles around me like an old sweater, familiar and comfortable despite its imperfections.
I make my way to the tiny office tucked behind the stage, flipping on the lights that illuminate walls papered with years of promotional materials. Band photos, concert posters, newspaper clippings yellow with age—the visual history of Nashville’s independent music scene. My desk sits beneath a window facing the alley, buried under booking forms and vendor invoices.
The filing cabinet in the corner requires a specific combination of pulling and sweet-talking to open properly. Inside, folders organize three years of my life into categories: Contracts, Receipts, Correspondence, Emergency Contacts. Everything necessary to keep a small venue running depends on determination and caffeine.
I’m reaching for the folder marked “Friday Lineup” when my fingers brush against something I’d forgotten was there—the hard edge of a guitar case pushed deep into the back corner.
My breath catches.
The case bears scars from a thousand miles of road wear and twice as many dreams deferred. Faded venue stickers cover its surface like battle wounds: The Orange Peel, Eddie’s Attic, The Bluebird Cafe. Places I once believed I belonged.
I should grab the folder and pretend I never touched it. Should lock the cabinet and go home and continue the life I’ve built around the absence of music.
Instead, I pull it out.
The case opens with a sigh, revealing the Martin D-15 I haven’t held in four years. Its mahogany body gleams despite neglect, though the strings hang slack and probably need replacing. A notebook rests in the accessory compartment—pages filled with chord progressions and half-finished lyrics written in handwriting that looks like mine but belongs to someone I used to be.
