“He is.”
She leaves, and I watch through the window as she gets in her car. Lily’s animated in the passenger seat, hands moving as she demonstrates the techniques I taught her. Rye listens, nods, even smiles at something Lily says.
My phone buzzes. Text from Benny:Sister’s fine. Just a scare. I’ll be back tomorrow. How’d the lesson go?
Good, I type back.Smart kid.
The smartest. Hope it wasn’t too much trouble.
No trouble at all.
Thanks for covering. I owe you one.
No problem.
Another text comes through, this one from Rye:She won’t stop talking about harmonics.
She learns fast, I type back.
She wants to know if you’ll teach her again.
What do you want?
A long pause. Three dots appearing and disappearing.I don’t want her to love music, but she does. Today, she’s different. You did something to change the way she feels about playing.
So?
So maybe we figure this out. Carefully.
Your rules. Your timeline.
Can we talk? Later? After she’s asleep?
I’ll be here.
10 o’clock?
Works for me.
I set the phone down and pick up my guitar. The simple progression Lily was working on flows under my fingers, but I find myself adding the variations she discovered. The harmonic at the end. The hammer-on run she figured out. She’s right that the basic chords sound boring. But with the right touch, the right intention, they become something more.
Kind of like teaching. I wasn’t planning on it, didn’t even know I’d be good at it. But showing her those techniques, seeing her face light up when she nailed the harmonics—that felt right. Natural. Like something I could be good at.
Maybe that’s what Rye saw. Not just me teaching her daughter, but caring about it. Wanting Lily to understand music, not just play it.
The shop stays empty as afternoon fades into evening. The sun drops lower, painting long shadows across the floor. A few people walk by, peering in the windows, but the closed sign keeps them moving.
I practice for another hour, working through progressions that sound hopeful. My fingers find melodies I haven’t played in years, stuff from before Reverend Sister, before everything got complicated. Simple songs that exist just because they want to, not because they need to chart or sell or mean something profound.
At seven, I flip the lights off and lock up, making sure everything’s secure for Benny’s return tomorrow. The stairs to my apartment creak under my feet, each one singing its familiar note.
Inside, I make a sandwich and eat standing at the counter, looking out at Nashville coming alive for the night. Music drifts up from the bars below, mixing into that wall of sound that never quite stops in this city.
I think about Lily’s determination, her focus. The way she intuited techniques before I could teach them. That’s not normal for a ten-year-old. Hell, it’s not normal for most adults. She’s got something special.
Which is probably why Rye’s so protective. She knows what this industry does to people with talent. Chew it up, package it, sell it until there’s nothing left but the echo of what it used to be.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Rye:She’s been playing harmonics for an hour. She says to tell you she found two more positions that work.
