The stage lights were too bright.
They burned down on me, making the auditorium blur into a sea of shadows and vague faces. My throat was dry, my hands trembling as I carried Mom's guitar to the stool at center stage.
The microphone loomed in front of me, silent, expectant.
For a second, I thought my knees would give out.
Breathe, I reminded myself. Rina's voice echoed in my head: Just play for one person. Whoever you need it to be.
I closed my eyes and thought of Mom. Her smile, soft and tired. The way her voice filled the air even when no one stopped to listen. The way she laughed when I was small and clapped off-beat to her songs.
My fingers pressed down on the strings.
The first chord rang out—shaky, uneven, but real.
A murmur rippled through the audience. My chest tightened, but I didn't stop.
I strummed again. Louder this time.
The melody Mom used to play came back in fragments, the kind of half-remembered tune that lived in my bones more than my memory. My voice followed, rough and unsteady.
Halfway through the verse, it cracked.
Laughter bubbled from somewhere in the audience. My stomach flipped, and I almost froze.
But then—
I spotted her.
Rina, leaning forward in her seat, her chin resting on her palm. She wasn't smirking. She wasn't mocking. She was just… listening.
Like it mattered.
Like I mattered.
So I kept going.
My voice wavered, my hands missed a chord, but I didn't stop. The song stumbled, fell, then picked itself back up again. With every note, the laughter faded, replaced by a strange, heavy quiet.
By the time I reached the last chorus, the auditorium was silent.
Not because I was flawless. But because I was honest.
The final chord rang out, buzzing faintly in the air before dissolving into nothing.
My hands fell limp against the strings. My heart pounded loud enough to drown the silence.
And then—applause.
Not thunderous. Not deafening. But real. Genuine. Enough.
I bowed awkwardly and hurried off stage before my legs could give out.
Back in the wings, Rina was waiting.
"Well?" she asked, raising a brow.
I opened my mouth, but no words came.
Instead, I laughed. Shaky, breathless, a little hysterical—but it was mine.
Rina's smirk softened into something else. Something rare. She reached out and flicked my forehead lightly. "Told you. You didn't die."
"…Barely."
"But you didn't." Her voice dropped low, serious. "And you were good, Music Boy. Really good."
Heat rose to my face. "…You mean it?"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't make me say it twice."