"Running away is temporary. You're always looking over your shoulder, always waiting for the thing you're running from to catch up. But hiding?" He smiled. "Hiding is active. It's deciding that this is where you want to be, not because you're afraid of what's out there, but because this is better."
"You think I'm running away."
"I think you haven't figured out which one you're doing yet."
The words landed with more weight than Raven had expected. She took a drink. "I never should have come here," she said again, but this time it sounded less certain.
"Maybe," Arty said. "Or maybe Bankton is exactly what you need."
"A village full of nosy people who think bringing casseroles is a personality trait?"
He laughed. "A place to lick your wounds and become yourself. Away from the noise, away from the people who think they know who you are based on tabloid headlines." He finished his drink and stood. "The village is protective of their own, you know. Look at Lilah Paxton. She's lived here for ages and there's never any gossip about her in the papers."
"Yeah, I’m not part of the village though, am I?"
"We’ll see," Arty said.
"And anyway, Lilah Paxton has an actual career to protect. I'm just… flailing."
"You're writing an album."
"I'mtryingto write an album."
"Same thing." He patted her shoulder as he passed. "And for what it's worth, those kids at the school? They don't care about tabloid headlines. They just know you're teaching them songs. That's real. The rest is just noise."
Raven watched him go back to the bar.
She finished her drink and ordered another.
BY THE TIME she made it back to the cottage, it was dark and she was pleasantly buzzed but not quite drunk. Just fuzzy enough around the edges that the comments didn't sting quite as much.
Her guitar was waiting by the window where she'd left it that morning.
She picked it up without thinking, settling into the armchair, fingers finding the strings automatically.
For weeks now, every time she tried to write, nothing came. Just angry, bitter fragments that went nowhere. Lyrics about Alissa that felt petty and small. Melodies that reminded her too much of the band, of everything she'd lost.
But tonight something felt different.
Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was Arty's words echoing in her head. Maybe it was just exhaustion finally breaking through the wall she'd built around her creativity.
She played a few chords, slow and contemplative.
Then a few more.
And then, almost without meaning to, words came.
In the quiet, in the storm
When the noise won't let you breathe
There's a place where you can form
Something new from what you grieve
It wasn't much. Four lines. Probably not even good.
But it was something.
