He had forgotten what it felt like—the surge of sound from a crowd, the almost physical pressure of hundreds of eyes turning towards him at once. For a moment he stood frozen at the edge of the stage, guitar in hand, every instinct screaming at him to run.
Then he saw Flora in the front row, wearing a black shirt that said “I KNEW HIM BEFORE HE WAS COOL” in glittery letters, startling a laugh out of him. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction.
Okay. I can do this.
He stepped into the spotlight.
The festival crowd spread out before him—familiar faces mixed with strangers, humans and Others alike, all gathered in the town square with drinks in hand and anticipation in their eyes. Paper lanterns swung from strings overhead, casting warm pools of colored light across the cobblestones. The air was thick with the scent of funnel cakes and blooming flowers and that particular electricity that came with live music.
He settled the guitar strap across his shoulder and adjusted the microphone.
“Evening, Fairhaven Falls.”
His voice sounded hoarse, but the crowd cheered anyway. He caught a glimpse of Nina near the sound booth, giving him a thumbs up. Somewhere to his left, he could hear Posy’s distinctive whistle. Maisie waved frantically from her perch on her father’s shoulders.
“Some of you might know me as the grumpy bastard who runs the Moonlight Tavern.” A ripple of laughter. “Some of you mightknow that I used to do this for a living, a long time ago. And some of you…” His eyes found Flora again. “Are wearing incredibly embarrassing shirts that we’ll be discussing later.”
“I regret nothing!” Flora shouted back.
More laughter. The crowd was warming up, settling in, their energy shifting from curiosity to anticipation.
His fingers found the strings.
“This first song is an old one,” he said quietly. “I haven’t played it in years, but it felt right for tonight.”
He struck the opening chord, and the music took over.
It was like sinking into a warm bath, like coming home after years of exile, like drawing breath after being underwater for far too long. His fingers remembered patterns his conscious mind had forgotten. His voice found notes he’d thought he’d lost. The guitar became an extension of his body, and the stage became his entire world.
The crowd disappeared. The nerves disappeared. Everything narrowed down to the vibration of the strings beneath his fingers and the words pouring out of his throat.
This is who I am,he thought distantly.This is who I’ve always been.
He’d forgotten what it felt like to lose himself in the music. Not the destructive loss of his earlier years, the frantic chase for bigger highs and louder crowds, but something purer. Something that had been there from the beginning, before the fame and the excess and the endless parade of empty encounters.
The first song ended, and the crowd erupted.
He blinked, suddenly aware of his surroundings again. The cheers washed over him like a benediction, and he felt his ears perk forward, the smile spreading across his face before he could stop it.
“Thank you.” His voice was rougher now, raw with emotion. “Thank you.”
He launched into the next song.
And the next.
And the next.
Time became meaningless. There was only the music and the crowd and the way they moved together, a living thing breathing in rhythm with his guitar. He played songs he’d written years ago, songs he’d never recorded, songs that had only ever existed in the quiet hours on his porch. He played until his fingers ached and his voice cracked and his whole body thrummed with an energy he’d almost forgotten existed.
When he finally struck the last chord, the silence that followed was deafening.
Then the cheers came—thunderous, overwhelming, shaking the very air around him.
He stood there, chest heaving, sweat dampening his fur, and felt something crack open inside him. Something that had been locked away for six years, something he’d convinced himself he didn’t need.
Fuck, I missed this.
He set down the guitar and raised a hand to the crowd before stepping down off the stage.
