The young girl makes it to the platform, and a kind stranger helps her up the ramp. She settles in front of the microphone, hands folded, fingers tightly locked. The café quiets, a hush of anticipation filling the space as she stares down at the floor.
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
A beat passes. Then another.
She clears her throat, tries again. A small, fragile note escapes before her voice frays at the edges. She winces like she’s been kicked, her body curling inward.
Poor thing.
She’s petrified.
Tears mist my eyes as I watch, silently offering support with the biggest smile I can muster.
The silence stretches into a cloud of unease. Her father leans forward in his chair, his expression caught between encouragement and helplessness.
Chase exhales sharply through his nose.
Falters.
Then he mutters “fuck me” under his breath and pushes his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor with a grating echo.
I gape at him. “Chase, what—”
But he’s already moving.
He stands, adjusting the hem of his faded leather jacket, and saunters toward the platform.
The girl looks up with alarm as he steps in beside her with his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. Her fingers grip the arms of her wheelchair, knuckles pale, while Chase hovers to her left, completely still, visibly second-guessing his decision.
My eyes pan back and forth. I clutch my coffee cup so hard the cap snaps off and liquid dribbles over the rim.
Oh my God. He’s going to sing.
I skate my attention over to Tag, catching the way his eyes move, assessing the scene.
Chase doesn’t touch the mic, doesn’t address the audience. He just crouches slightly, so he’s at eye level with the girl. “What’s your name?”
She blinks hard. “Clara.” Her voice is thin, reverberating through the microphone.
Everyone watches, eager, expectant.
Chase nods.
For a second, I think he’s going to walk away. But instead, he leans in again, muttering something too low for me to catch.
Clara’s expression wavers.
Whatever he said softens her nerves.
An unreadable look flickers across her face. Then, after a long, heavy pause, her shoulders deflate and she murmurs something else over her shoulder.
A rough voice crackles through the mic. “Yeah, I know it.”
The café holds its breath as she turns back to the audience. Her voice shakes through the opening notes, barely a whisper, and for a second, I wonder if she might stop altogether.
But Chase joins in.
Not loud, not stealing focus. His steady vibrato threads through hers like an anchor, until, gradually, Clara’s grip on the chair’s arms loosens. Her voice stabilizes, growing stronger with every songful word.
