Not a stone, I realise. It’s smooth, cloudy white, and almost translucent in the moonlight.
“Sea glass—weathered to sublime imperfection.” He places it in my palm, his voice dropping. “Music is not about being perfect. It’s about living in the moment. As for your creative block, try to be patient. The music will return when you’re ready.”
He climbs down to the shoreline, and after a moment of hesitation, I follow.
“But…what should I actuallydo?” I ask, before mumbling, “aside from being patient.”
He gives me a sideways look, half-amused, half-serious. “You want homework?”
“Yes.”
Scales. Exercises. Worksheets.
A bloody podcast.
Something.
He falls quiet, contemplating his reply. “You said you want to write songs. Well, you can gather material in other ways—no guitar, no singing. Perhaps not even pen and paper.”
“I don’t…quite understand.” By which I mean I don’t understand at all.
“I’ve found the best musicians are the ones who’ve lived—seen things, felt things. The music comes from that. Theatre, art, travel, heartbreak…love.” The last word lands too softly, as if he’s unsure of it. “Even politics. You form your own opinions. Then, when you’re ready to play again—and I’ve no doubt you will—the music will have something to draw from.”
I nod, hoping he doesn’t see the confusion his words have stirred in me. I wasn’t sure what I expected. A pep talk? Another taskmaster like Toby? Or someone maddeningly zen, dog-whispering my struggles away with a quiet word?
Whatever I imagined, Brandon isn’t that. I’ve come an awfully long way to hear that maybe the only way forward is to stop playing music altogether.
Our footsteps crunch in rhythm on the pebbled beach as I consider his words. I never had a real plan—only Toby’s dream, borrowed and mistaken for my own. All I know is that I don’t want to be famous. I just want to create music to share with others and earn enough to get by.
I chew my lip, mind working. Brandon said to live in the moment. To not worry about making mistakes.
But I also don’t want to sit around waiting for the music to come to me. I want tomakeit happen, or at least meet it halfway.
The idea hits me so suddenly I inhale sharply and grab his shirtsleeve, tugging him back towards the cottage.
“What is it?” he asks.
“I want to try playing something,” I blurt. “On my guitar.”
“Wait. Now?”
“Yes. Right now. I mean—” I glance down and release his sleeve, blinking rapidly. I hadn’t meant to do that. “I don’t know if it’ll come out right, but I want to try. There’s no time like the present, right?”
He considers me for a moment, eyes thoughtful. “Well, then. Let’s go get your guitar.”
I start marching down the beach, but this time he’s the one who catches my sleeve, gently tugging me back.
Confused, I stare up at him in the darkness, but he simply points to a row of cottages nearby.
“We’re just over there.”
“Oh. Right. I didn’t realise we walked this far.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and beneath his steady gaze, my skin heats.
“What?” I demand.
“You looked ready to march all the way to Botany Bay,” he says, laughter low in his voice.
