The spotlight.
The roar of applause.
Her own voice, rising up like a soul finally unlocked from its vault.
But so too had the gloriousness come with a sense of overwhelming sadness. That was the strange thing about memory lately: It wasn’t chronological anymore. But musical. Emotional. Came back in flashes and tones.
Roxy jumped off the bed with a soft thump. Her tiny feet clicked across the floor as she trotted to the door, claws scratching at the bottom panel just as the knock sounded again.
Eleanor pushed the covers aside, realizing with a faint jolt that she’d fallen asleep in her dress from the day before. The fabric was wrinkled now, the hem twisted around her knees, and the faint scent of sweat and lavender clung to the cloth like perfume and memory.
She padded barefoot across the room and cracked the door open.
A young man in a front-desk uniform stood there, holding up a folded piece of paper.
“Eleanor Bell?” he asked, polite but hesitant.
“Yes?” Eleanor blinked, trying to rid the sleep—and the fog—from her eyes.
“I’ve got a message for you.” He handed her the slip of paper. His eyes lit up suddenly. “Shep Moon.”
The name landed in her ears like a whisper, hinting at something she should remember.
“Shep Moon,” she repeated aloud, but it came out more like a question than a statement.
Something in her stomach fluttered—recognition? Or was it just the lyrical cadence of the name that suggested someone worth knowing?
Shep Moon.
Wasn’t that the musician Nora had mentioned once?
Claimed he played guitar like nobody’s business. And of all the ridiculous things to say, Nora claimed Shep Moon gave Jimi Hendrix a run for his money. When she’d asked if Nora had a crush, her granddaughter had scoffed and said he was too old, but from the picture Eleanor saw, he wasn’t old at all. Probably late thirties or early forties. But she supposed to any eighteen-year-old, that was elderly.
What in the world would Shep Moon want with her?
Eleanor held out a hand and took the slip of paper, covered with messy, unfamiliar handwriting from the clerk. She murmured her thanks before closing the door and clicking the lock firmly into place.
Leaning back against the wood, letting the solidness hold her up.
She looked down at the note again, her hands trembling.
Shep Moon requests your presence onstage to sing his first number, Rising Tide.
Eleanor’s heart pounded behind her rib cage, her fingers trembled against the paper that she held in her hands. She stared at the words, expecting them to rearrange themselves. A musician wanted her onstage with him. Not as a fluke. Not as a nostalgia act.
As a performer.
Was this real? She wasn’t always sure anymore what was real and what were figments of her imagination.
She pressed a hand to her arm. The skin—soft, papery, the elasticity of youth vanished—warmed slightly under her touch. She didn’t dare pinch herself or risk a bruise, which happened too easily these days. But this wasn’t a dream.
In a dream, she wouldn’t be able to see the delicate blue veins beneath her skin. The fine age spots. The realness of time.
No, dreams didn’t look this lived-in.
She rushed to change her clothes, moving with a giddy urgency she hadn’t felt in decades.
She chose another floaty dress—this one light teal with a daisy pattern—something that felt in fashion for the festival scene. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she started to twist her hair into a bun, then let it drop long and loose around her shoulders again. Something she never would’ve done back home. Something a woman of her age wouldn’t ever do in public. But right now, she didn’t care what a woman her age should or shouldn’t do.
