Lost dreams of a young girl
She cries out my name
And hark, that voice is mine
Her voice lifts, higher and more fragile, aching notes that stretch like a bird taking flight.
God.
I always knew she was extraordinary. I knew it on the beach, when the wind stole half the sound and I still felt it.
And I’m privileged to hear it again now.
I’m not waiting…for a sign in the sky
But I’ll paint a star, paint a star, paint a star
On the dark canvas of night
It’s not a miracle, but a hope that’s ever-bright
Her fingers brush the strings one last time, the final chord trembling. The sun has dipped low, bathing the garden molten orange, her hair deep gold.
Something deep within me stirs, unbidden. A truth I thought drowned, gasping for air as it resurfaces.
I see her now the way I did on stage: composed, radiant, and full of life.
No longer requiring my guidance, if she ever did.
And I realise, with a start that feels both inevitable and ruinous, that this longing ache in my chest is no new thing. It’s been with me all along. From the moment she drew that guitar case out of my hands at the airport, fearful I would take it from her. I could never hurt her like that.
And certainly, I’ve been drawn to her since I first heard her sing, fighting to reclaim what she lost.
But it’s a funny thing…
She glances at me, that modest, sweet smile catching me off-guard. I’m convinced she can see right through me and read every thought.
The song fades out.
“Well, what do you think?” she asks.
“Stunning. Truly.” She beams, and I add, “May I offer some advice?”
“Yes…?”
I choose my words carefully. “You should play that next weekend.”
“Really?”
I nod. “And I think you should do it as a solo piece.”Without Jack, I want to add, but refrain.
“Okay,” she says softly. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
She smiles at me—and for a heartbeat, the world shines around her. Too bright. Too much. Too close.
And yet she’s impossibly out of reach.
