“The one you told her about.”
“How do you know which song I told her about?”
“You were in my café.”
“You were listening?”
“I own the walls.”
“That isn’t how walls work.”
“They report to me.”
She unlocked the phone.
“I’m not watching celebrity coverage.”
“This is music.”
“Performed by a celebrity.”
“It can be two things.”
That idea was becoming inconveniently persistent.
Rosa lowered the volume and placed the phone beside my plate.
“You choose.”
Then she walked away.
The video waited.
I had not searched for it.
Not because the old promise still applied.
Because I did not want the internet deciding who Savannah was before I decided what I believed.
I pressed play.
The first notes ofHard Winterfilled the small speaker.
I had heard Savannah perform the song before.
On the radio.
Through headphones on late nights when Chicago felt especially cold and Johnson & Calder expected me to care about things no person should have been awake to discuss.
This version was different.
Not dramatically.
No breakdown.
No theatrical pause designed for clips.
She left more space between the words.
