It wasn't panic. That was new.
It was something else. Something lighter. Something that felt suspiciously… hopeful. Like maybe… maybe she was happy? Maybe she could handle this?
She sat up, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. Her notebook was on the counter whereshe'd left it, pages covered in half-finished lyrics and chord progressions that had been eluding her for months.
She made coffee, strong, black, the kind that could wake the dead, and settled at the table with her guitar.
The melody came easily this time. Her fingers found the chords without fumbling, and the words followed, spilling out in a way they hadn't since before Alissa's wedding, before the breakup, before everything had fallen apart.
Finding home in unexpected places
Learning how to let the light back in
Maybe broken isn't permanent
Maybe this is where I begin
Raven played through the verse twice, adjusting it, humming under her breath. It was rough, needed work, it still wasn’t a whole song, but it wasreal. It was hers. It was getting there.
And it was about Annabelle. Obviously. Because apparently Raven had turned into the kind of sap who wrote love songs about her neighbor. She groaned to herself, but couldn’t bring herself to regret it.
She set the guitar down and stared at the notebook, that unfamiliar lightness still blooming in her chest.
Maybe this could work. Maybe Annabelle was good for her. Maybe, after everything, this could actually be something.
Her phone rang.
Raven glanced at the screen. Unknown number. She almost didn't answer. It was probably a journalist, or a fan who'd somehow tracked down her private line, which definitely happened, but something made her pick up anyway.
"Yeah?"
"Raven. It's Henry."
Raven's stomach dropped. Henry. Her bassist. She hadn't spoken to him since she'd walked out on Krimson Khaos.
"What do you want?"
"Straight to the point as always." Henry laughed, but it sounded forced. "Look, I'm calling because we've been talking, me, Dev, and Simon, and we want to do a reunion tour."
"No."
"Hear me out—"
"I said no, Henry."
"Just listen for one minute." His voice took on that wheedling, persuasive quality she remembered too well. "We're talking massive venues. Wembley, the O2, maybe even a few international dates. The label's already interested, they're throwing serious money at this. This could be huge, Raven. A chance to reclaim everything."
Raven's jaw tightened. "I don't need to reclaim anything. I'm doing solo work now."
"In a village in the middle of nowhere?" Henry’s skepticism was audible. "Come on. You're hiding out, licking your wounds, and that's fine. Take your time. But you're not going to write a comeback album sitting in some cottage. You need the energy, the pressure, the spotlight…"
"What Ineed," Raven said coldly, "is for you to stop telling me what I need. I'm not interested in the reunion. I'm not interested in reliving the past. The answer is no."
"Think about the money."
"I don't care about the money."
"Then think about the legacy!" Henry was warming to his pitch now, relentless. "Krimson Khaos was one of the biggest rock acts in the country. We can't just let it die like this. One final tour, go out on a high note, show everyone we're still relevant. Or maybe a beginning tour, the start of something new."
