Gloria studied her with eyes that were far too knowing for Raven's comfort. "Work. Yes. How terribly important." She smiled, a slow, theatrical thing. "Well, darling, when you decide you'd like to be part of something again, and you will, you know where to find us."
"The community hall," Daisy supplied helpfully. "Tuesdays and Thursdays at seven. But also Gloria's usually at Blossom's café most mornings if you want to chat about it."
They left in a flurry of waves and scarves, Daisy still talking about the wonders of village life as they walked down the path.
Raven closed the door and leaned against it.
She wouldn't join their am-dram society. She wouldn't go to pub quizzes or village fêtes or book clubs. She wasn't here to become part of this place.
She was here to work.
She just wished she could actually do some.
FOR THE NEXT three nights, Raven made an effort. She really did.
She kept the volume down. She tried to stop playing by midnight, just like Annabelle had politely requested. She even used her headphones, which she hated because they made everything sound flat and disconnected.
But the insomnia didn't care about her good intentions. Neither did the creative block that had been choking her for months.
By the fourth night, she'd given up on sleep entirely. It was almost midnight, and she was pacing her sitting room like a caged animal, guitar in hand, frustration building with every step.
Her phone buzzed. Again.
Claire had been texting her for three days straight. The messages had gone from concerned to pushy to downright aggressive.
The label wants an update.
You can't just disappear, Raven.
At least post something on social media. Your engagement numbers are tanking.
And then, twenty minutes ago:At least do an Instagram Live. I don't care what you play. Just show them you're still alive and making music.
Raven stared at her phone, then at her guitar, then at the empty room around her.
Fine. She'd do a stupid Instagram Live. She'd play a few songs with headphones, mumble something vaguely reassuring about the album, and Claire would get off her back for at least a week.
She set up her phone on the bookshelf, angling it so the camera caught her and her guitar, the backdrop of the open living room door peering into the hallway behind her. She pulledon her headphones, opened Instagram, and hit the button to go live before she could talk herself out of it.
Comments started flooding in immediately. She ignored them.
"Hey," she said, her voice flat. "It's late. I'm awake. Figured I'd play something."
More comments. She still ignored them.
"Dunno what you’re gonna get yet," she continued, tuning her guitar with more force than necessary. "We’ll see how things come out, shall we?"
She strummed a few chords, adjusted the tuning.
"Also, if any of you are considering moving to a small village for peace and quiet, be warned: your neighbors will bring you biscuits and invite you to am-dram societies and generally act like you're going to become best friends." She played a minor progression, something dark and restless. "It's exhausting."
The comments were going wild now. She could see them scrolling past on the screen. But she wasn't really paying attention anymore.
The music was pulling her in.
She closed her eyes and just played. No plan, no structure, just following wherever the chords wanted to go. It felt good. Better than good. For the first time in days, weeks, she felt something loosening in her chest, some knot of tension finally starting to unravel.
She didn't notice when her head started moving with the rhythm. Didn't notice when the headphones shifted, slipping back slightly on her ears.
