Step off.
And just like that, I decide I’m not going home.
The sun is starting to dip, and the air smells like diesel and honeysuckle. There’s an old bench outside the depot, half-shaded. I sit, openThe Alchemist, and flip back to the page with Hunter’s note still tucked inside.
For when you forget what you’re made of. You’re a dreamer, Faith. You were never meant to stay caged.
God.
I reread that line three times.
Then I do something I haven’t done in years: I act on instinct.
I walk up to the little kiosk and say, “Hi. What’s your next bus to Nashville?”
The guy behind the glass looks up, surprised. “Nashville?”
“Yeah. Music City. That one.”
He types for a moment. “Leaves in forty minutes.”
I book it. One-way. No idea where I’m staying.
Then I call April.
“Faith?” she says, confused. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Actually... I think I’m finally doing something for me.”
“Okay... what’s going on?”
“Wanna go to Nashville tonight?”
Pause. “Uh. That’s like a four-hour drive for me.”
“So?” I say, smiling for the first time all day. “You scared?”
Another beat. Then she exhales, long and sharp.
“Screw it. I’m in.”
* * *
The singer stepsoff the stage to a chorus of applause, her voice still echoing in the corners of the bar like a ghost that doesn’t want to leave.
She’s in her late 30s maybe, glowing with sweat and something deeper. Freedom, maybe. Fulfillment. Thatglowyou can’t fake.
April’s nudging me. “Go tell her how good she was.”
“I’m not?—”
“She was amazing. And you were crying. So. Go.”
I slide off the barstool, heart hammering, and head toward her as she sips water near the side exit.
“Hey,” I start, feeling stupid already. “I just wanted to say…your set was incredible.”
She smiles, warm and easy. “Thank you. You visiting?”
