You needed the money for rent.
Darkness claims me.
one
One Week Earlier
It’sfinallylunchbreakat Hungry Llama Games and I’m off.
First stop, I grab food from the taco stand. Wolf it down and drift over to the edge of Pike Place Market to tuck myself beside a spinning. squeaky rack of postcards.
This is where I stand. Watch. Usually leave before I do anything stupid.
Her name’s Hope. She lives somewhere between a dream I can’t quite fathom and a reality I don’t know how to step into.
I hover as tourists crowd the walkway, voices stacking on top of each other. Gulls cut through the noise with sharp cries as they seek out scraps of food on the cobblestone. Fishmongerscall out near the market entrance and a salmon arcs through the air to delighted applause.
All of it fades the second she starts to sing.
Hope claims the space near The Clock right in front of the fish stand in the middle of a whirlwind of tourists. The chaos seems to bend around her.
Her guitar rests against her body, worn smooth in places, edges nicked and scratched from years of use. Her fingers move across the strings with precision, each chord landing with intent. No hesitation. No searching. Muscle memory and instinct working together.
Her voice carries.
Not louder than everything else. Stronger. It threads through the noise and pulls people in. Conversations drop off mid-sentence. Footsteps slow. Strangers turn their heads and drift closer, drawn in without realizing why.
I shift my stance, trying to look away, to give myself a second of distance. It lasts maybe half a breath until my focus snaps right back to her.
A faded, patched denim jacket hangs loose over her shoulders. Her jeans cling to long legs, torn open at the knees. Black tights stretch beneath, one laddered line running down her shin. Boots hit the cobblestone in steady rhythm, heel striking in time with the beat she sets.
Every part of her seems comfortable. Lived in. Nothing’s polished.
Hope’s absolutely perfect.
A strand of dark hair falls across her face. She doesn’t push it back. Keeps playing. Keeps singing. The rest spills down her back in a wild sweep, catching light when the clouds shift overhead. Her eyes close as she climbs into a higher note. Her fingers press harder into the strings. The sound lifts, stretches,fills the space until the market noise drops away and leaves only her voice.
Something shifts inside me. Not a thought. Not even a feeling I can name.
A pull. Deep. Unavoidable.
She drops back into the verse, voice rougher now, textured. People lean in closer. A couple near the front stands frozen, hands clasped together. Someone raises a phone. A child sits cross-legged on the ground, staring up at her with complete focus.
I’ve been here every day this week.
Same time. Same place. Same distance.
I know the pattern of her set. I know which songs make her shut her eyes. Which ones bring a faint lift to her mouth, there for a second before it disappears. I know the way her left hand shifts during the bridge of the third song, a quick slide, a turn of her wrist, always perfect.
I can see everything, yet there’s nothing I can touch.
The gap between those two things sits heavy in my heart.
She stands a mere ten feet away, pouring herself into the street. I stay locked behind an invisible barrier, gawking.
A guy beside me drops cash into her open guitar case. She nods once without breaking rhythm. Keeps going.
I’m in awe of how Hope expresses herself to the world. My creativity remains behind the scenes, where I’ve always been more comfortable.
