I’m halfway through the second verse when footsteps crunch lightly across the grass.
Small footsteps.
I freeze.
“Hi,” a small voice says.
I turn slowly. Lily stands a few feet away, her loose strands of curls catching the sunlight. She’s smiling like she’s worried I’ll run.
“Sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I just… wanted to ask if I could listen.”
My throat tightens. I tuck my hair behind my ear and try to breathe normally. “Uh—sure. If you want.”
She sits on the edge of the step, swinging her legs. Silent for abeat. Then:
“I know who you are. And I know that’s your song.”
My stomach drops.
She doesn’t say it like a threat or gossip.
Just a fact.
“I recognized your voice,” she says softly. “My mom used to play your music all the time. Especially when she was sad.”
I stare at her, heart thudding. “And you’re not… telling people?”
She shakes her head. “No. I won’t. I promise.”
Her eyes flick to the guitar. “You were singing‘Paper Wings.’”
I blink. “You know that one?”
She nods. Takes a breath. And then—quietly, gently—she sings the first line.
Her voice is soft and a little wobbly, but there’s something in it. Something warm and open, like she means every word.
It hits me like a punch.
No one has sung my music to me before.
When she stops, she looks up shyly. “Sorry. I don’t know all the words.”
“You sounded beautiful,” I tell her. My voice cracks, but I don’t hide it.
Her whole face lights up.
She’s talented. Raw, but talented. And God—she could be so good with guidance, with time, with protection.
I glance at her white sneakers tapping the concrete. “You’ve got rhythm.”
She grins. “I do?”
I nod. “You just… feel it. That’s half the battle.”
Lily hugs her knees, thinking. Then she looks up at me.
“What happened to your girl band? Rebel June?”
