A hush rolls over the crowd.
“It’s the song she heard before I even knew I’d finish it. We wrote it together, really. Over lemonade and porch nights, with sharpies and scratched-out verses, laughter andlove that made me brave enough to stop hiding my music. We call it ‘The Melody’s Ours.’”
I start to play. The chords come like muscle memory.
When I sing, it doesn’t soar, it stays close to the ground. Steady. Raw. There’s a slight husk in the lower register, nothing forced, but shaped by years of singing alone, with no audience but the trees outside my place.
It’s not smooth or trained to perfection. It’s a little unrefined, tinged with the honesty of emotions in the lyrics. A slight country twang slips into certain vowels, softened by time and the distance I’ve put between myself and the stage.
A few of the kids I’ve taught say they feel “safe” when they hear it. Tess says it’s the same voice she used to hear through the bedroom walls, unfiltered, when I thought no one was listening. She told me once it’s the sound I make when I forget to guard myself. That when I sing, it’s not just music—it’s me, finally letting the world in.
One of my students said it had Hozier vibes. Another told me it sounded as if I was trying to say something I’ve never dared speak out loud—not even to myself.
And Marty told me it reminded him of early Ray LaMontagne: gritty, intimate, like the sound of gravel under bare feet. That one stuck.
I don’t know if any of that’s true. But it’s the only voice I’ve ever had.
Tonight, I’m not hiding it.
My voice carries the weight of the story, not just the notes. The melody flows out of me like lava—slow, unstoppable, pulled from that same deep place inside me that used to ache with everything I never said. The years I spent offstage, away from the band, ignoring the songsthat used to hum in the back of my mind, convinced no one should or would want to hear them.
Not refined. Not pretty. But full of heat and truth and memory.
I find Maisie in the crowd again, and the words rise, easier than I expected.
You live like wildfire, though some tell you no.
Your love’s without guile. It’s never a show.
From the edge of the crowd, I see Dot press her hand to her heart. Millie leans into Reenie, who starts to sway side to side. Not a word said. Just quietly moving.
You laugh like a fountain. You smile like the morn.
That’s why I love you. That’s why you were born.
I breathe through the nerves, my fingers steady, knowing exactly where to go next.
If I hand you my soul, would you run for the stars?
Or can I trust you to kiss all my scars?
I don’t need you perfect. I don’t want you reshaped.
I’m longing to hold you.The real you’s what I crave.
A gentle ripple moves through the crowd, a few people shifting closer together, arms brushing, heads leaning. The whole town seems to exhale at once.
You brought color to verses I once wrote in gray.
Now your voice fills the silence I used to embrace.
Reenie rests a hand lightly on Millie’s shoulder.Someone in the back sighs, not out of boredom, but like something breaking open.
We rewrote the chorus without perfect rhyme,
And you finish my thoughts a lot of the time.
I give Maisie a crooked grin as I step into the chorus.
