"That song came from somewhere real," she continues, not looking at me. "It wasn't trying to be anything except honest. And now..."
"Now what?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She finally meets my eyes. "Now your melodies are the same album after album. The guitar work is still incredible, but it's like you're playing it safe. Following some formula instead of trusting your instincts."
Hearing it from someone who actually knows my catalog—who grew up with those early songs—makes it worse somehow.
"My record label wants me to chase algorithms now," I say quietly. "TikTok hooks, streaming playlist formulas. Everything has to test well with focus groups before they'll approve it."
"But you used to write songs that made people feel things they couldn't name," she whispers. "What happened to that Cameron?"
Her question cuts deeper than any music critic's review ever could. Because she's not asking as a stranger—she's asking as someone who loved what I used to create.
Before I can answer, a sharp crack of thunder explodes directly overhead, followed by a child's frightened cry.
"Daddy Cameron!"
I jerk back from Tara, both of us breathing hard. Posey's shrill voice carries pure terror from the loft above.
Rushing up the staircase, I find Posey sitting up in the narrow bed, tears streaming down her face. Completely disoriented.
"Where am I? I want Grandmama!"
"You're safe," I say, settling beside her on the bed. "We found shelter from the storm. Edison led us here."
Another rumble of thunder makes her flinch and bury her face against my chest.
"I'm scared. The noise is so loud."
Tara appears beside me.
"It's just noise, Posey," I say softly, stroking her hair. "The storm can't hurt us in here."
But she's still trembling. And suddenly, I know what she needs. What we all need.
I hum softly, letting a melody emerge naturally—not from any formula or focus group. But from this moment. From love and fear and the need to protect what matters.
"When the storm clouds gather, and the wind blows," I sing quietly, "we'll find our shelter, a place we can go..."
The melody flows out of me like water finding its course. Simple and true.
"Safe from the thunder, safe from the rain, in each other's arms, we'll weather the pain..."
"We'll be your shelter, shelter in the storm..."
When the last note fades, Posey settles into a restless sleep.
"That was beautiful," Tara whispers, her eyes bright with something that might be tears.
I look down at my sleeping daughter, then back at Tara.
The song came from a place I'd forgotten existed. Not manufactured for radio play or wedding playlists. Instead, born from love and need and truth.
"I haven't felt that in years," I admit quietly. "Like the music was just... there. Waiting."
"That's what real songwriting sounds like," she says softly. "When it comes from inside. Instead of algorithms."
Something shifts in my chest. The song didn't just calm Posey. It awakened something in me I thought Sterling Records had killed years ago.
