Not the woman who wrote it.
And somehow she had still known something true about me.
I sang.
Not differently enough for anyone to call it a mistake.
Just quieter at first.
Less polished.
I let the rough edge remain in my voice instead of smoothing it away.
By the final chorus, the audience was singing with me.
Thousands of voices.
One memory.
The last note faded.
The silence before the applause lasted half a second longer than usual.
Then the arena rose.
I smiled.
Not the market smile.
Not the meet-and-greet smile.
Mine.
The rest of the show was good.
Very good.
I missed one cue because a stuffed turtle landed near my boot.
No one noticed.
After the encore, I came offstage sweating, breathless, and completely awake.
The tour director hugged me.
The guitarist told meHard Winterhad felt different.
Dani appeared with powder before I had stopped moving.
Sophie was already typing.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“You type aggressively when doing nothing.”
“The video ofHard Winteris taking off.”
