Chapter One

The morning light filtered through dusty blinds, casting bars of gold across Jacob Whitney’s bedroom. He stood before the mirror, his daily ritual of confrontation. The young man’s face and neck were scarred, horrifically scarred-a gift from a maddened Pit Bull eleven years ago when he was just eight years old. A surgeon had done his best, but there was only so much he could do with flesh that had been torn and mangled. The scars ran deep, creating valleys and ridges across what had once been smooth skin, transforming one side of his face into a topographical map of trauma.

Jacob ran his fingers along the familiar terrain, following the path from his left ear down to his jawline. The sensation was odd-parts numb, parts hypersensitive. He no longer flinched at the sight. It was simply his face now.

He’d long grown used to other people’s reactions. The sharp intake of breath, the quickly averted eyes, the mothers pulling their children closer as they passed him on the street-these things had become as routine as sunrise. In the beginning, each reaction had been a fresh wound, deeper than the physical scars themselves. Now, at nineteen, he’d learned to ignore it, much as one might ignore the distant sound of traffic or the cry of seagulls over the harbor.

The kettle whistled from the kitchen of his small apartment. Jacob moved away from the mirror, his bare feet silent on the wooden floor. The apartment was sparse but intentional-each object carefully chosen and placed. A bookshelf overflowed with dog-eared paperbacks; a guitar leaned against the wall beside the window; an easel stood in the corner, a half-finished canvas waiting patiently.

Jacob poured water over the coffee grounds, watching them bloom and expand. Black coffee, no sugar-a simple pleasure. The bitter aroma filled the small space, bringing the day into focus. Through the window, the city was waking. Lights flickered on in neighboring apartments, and early commuters hurried down the sidewalks below.

He took his coffee to the window, set it on the sill, and picked up his guitar. This was his hour-when his fingers found the strings and music filled the space where words so often failed him. He played without sheet music, letting melodies emerge and evolve, sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce. The music was his voice, expressing what his scarred face could not.

When the hour ended, he set down the guitar and moved to the center of the floor. His exercise routine was methodical, almost meditative. Push-ups, pull-ups on the bar mounted in his doorway, squats, and core work-his body was a machine he maintained with precision. Sweat beaded on his forehead and chest, running rivulets through the scars that continued from his neck down onto his upper torso.

The workout completed, Jacob showered and dressed for work. Dark jeans, steel-toed boots, a plain black t-shirt. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror-a tall, lean figure, muscled without bulk. His dark hair was cut short, practical. Only his eyes, a startling blue, seemed at odds with the hardness of his appearance.

The fab shop was thirty minutes away by bus. Jacob stood at the stop, headphones in, music drowning out the world. He felt the stares, registered the empty space that always seemed to form around him in public places, and let it all wash over him. His besetting weakness-or perhaps his strength-was the violence that lived in him like a coiled spring, wound tight by years of mockery and abuse, ready to unleash itself on those who thought him an easy mark to bully.

He was very, very good at hurting people, a skill learned in group homes and time on the streets and perfected in countless street fights. His scarred face made people think him weak; they never saw the steel beneath until it was too late. But for all of that, he was a peaceful sort, a nineteen-year-old trying to make his way in the world.

The bus arrived. Jacob boarded, found a seat alone near the back, and gazed out the window. The city slid by-brick buildings giving way to industrial zones, trees becoming scarcer, the sky wider but somehow grayer. His thoughts drifted to the canvas waiting at home. He’d been working on a seascape, inspired by a trip to the harbor last weekend. The interplay of light on water fascinated him-how something so changeable could be captured, frozen in time.

The fabrication shop loomed ahead, a sprawling corrugated metal building with a vast gravel yard filled with steel pipes and massive sheets of steel. Inside, the air was heavy with the dry smell of metal. The constant din of machinery-grinding, hammering, the egg frying hiss of welding guns-was oddly comforting to Jacob. Here, in this cacophony, he found a strange peace. Here, his scarred face was just another detail in a world defined by function over form.

Jacob nodded to a few coworkers as he made his way to his station. They nodded back-no small talk, no questions. The shop specialized in pressure vessels, crucial components designed to hold gases or liquids at different pressures than ambient. It was delicate, precision work despite the industrial setting. Jacob pulled on his welding helmet, a shield behind which his face disappeared completely.

As the flux core wire flowed and flashed white hot, Jacob felt himself settle into the rhythm of the day. The metal yielded to his hands, joining where he commanded it to join. There was power in this-creation through fire, strength born of heat and pressure. Not unlike the forces that had shaped him.

Outside, the city continued its relentless pace. But here, in this moment, Jacob Whitney was not defined by his scars. He was defined by what he could create. And tonight, when work was done, he would return to his apartment, to his guitar, canvas and paints, and continue the slow, patient work of creating himself.

Chapter Two

On weekends, he was a busker playing downtown by the farmer’s market. There was a particular corner sheltered from the wind that, for some odd reason, had excellent acoustics-a natural amphitheater created by the brick buildings and concrete overhangs. Jacob had discovered it by accident nearly a year ago, when ducking out of the rain with his guitar case. He’d strummed a few chords and been startled by how the sound carried, clear and resonant, bouncing off the surrounding structures in just the right way.

Several months ago, a couple of men-street musicians with more ambition than talent-had tried to muscle his spot away. They’d approached late one Saturday afternoon as he was packing up, the taller one advancing with a swagger while his partner fingered something metal in his pocket.

“Nice little setup you got here, Scarface,” the tall one had said. “Thing is, this corner belongs to us now. City’s big enough for you to find somewhere else.”

Jacob had looked up slowly, his blue eyes cold. He’d seen their type before-bullies who mistook his disfigurement for weakness. The resultant violence had been quick and brutal, putting an end to that challenge right quick. The tall one had gone down first, a precise strike to the throat leaving him gasping on the pavement. His partner had pulled a knife, but Jacob had been expecting it, catching the man’s wrist and applying pressure until something snapped. The knife had clattered to the ground along with the man, his face contorted in pain.

“Tell your friends,” Jacob had said quietly, picking up his guitar case. “This corner’s taken.”

No one had bothered him since.

So on weekends he played, never anyone else’s stuff, only his own creations. Blues mostly-songs that emerged from some place deep within him, dark and honest. His voice, which in contrast to his scars, had a soft, rich smokiness to it, reminiscent of Nat King Cole. This unexpected gift brought life to lyrics that talked of pain and wonder, beauty and longing-emotions he found easier to express through music than conversation.

This Saturday was unusually warm for early spring. The farmer’s market was bustling, stalls overflowing with early produce, artisanal breads, and handcrafted goods. The scent of fresh coffee and baked pastries hung in the air, mingling with the earthy smell of root vegetables and the sweet perfume of the first strawberries of the season.

Jacob arrived early, before the market reached its peak. He wore what he always wore when performing-dark jeans, a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle. He set his worn guitar case open at his feet, positioned himself on the wooden stool he brought each week, and began to tune his instrument-a vintage Gibson acoustic he’d painstakingly restored over the course of two years.

His fingers moved deftly across the strings, coaxing them to perfect pitch. The ritual centered him, preparing him for the vulnerability of performance. He began with an instrumental piece, something slow and contemplative that matched the morning’s gentle start. As the crowds thickened, he shifted to more rhythmic compositions, his right foot tapping against the concrete.

Then he sang:

{i}”Broken mirrors tell no lies,
They just multiply the damage...
And every piece reflects a different truth,
A different angle on this life...”{/i}

His voice rolled out across the marketplace, warm and textured like aged whiskey. People would pause their busy travels and stare, surprised at the beauty coming from the beast. Children stopped their running to listen, momentarily transfixed. Adults who had been hurrying through their shopping slowed, then stopped altogether.

It was always the same-initial shock, then wonder. Jacob had grown accustomed to it, this moment when people looked past his scars and actually saw him, or at least, saw what he chose to reveal through his music. For those few hours each weekend, the stares held something other than disgust or pity. They held appreciation, sometimes even admiration.

A small crowd gathered as he moved through his repertoire. Coins and bills accumulated in his guitar case-not enough to live on, but enough to matter. Some regulars nodded in recognition of favorite songs. An elderly woman who came every week sat on a nearby bench, eyes closed, swaying slightly to the rhythm. A young couple danced slowly at the edge of the gathering, lost in each other and the music.

Between songs, Jacob sipped water from a metal bottle, his eyes scanning the crowd. He nodded thanks to those who dropped money in his case but rarely engaged beyond that. The music was his conversation with the world-anything more felt unnecessary.

As noon approached, the market reached its peak. The sun directly overhead eliminated the shadows that usually provided Jacob some camouflage. In this harsh light, his scars were at their most visible, the ridges and valleys accentuated by the unforgiving glare. Yet he continued to play, his voice perhaps growing a touch more defiant.

{i}”These scars are just a story,
Not the whole book, just a chapter...
And the pages keep on turning,
Long after the wounds have healed...”{/i}

A young woman paused at the edge of the crowd. Unlike the others, she didn’t stare at his face and then quickly look away. She held his gaze when he glanced up, her expression thoughtful rather than pitying. There was something in her stance-an artist’s assessment rather than a gawker’s curiosity.

Jacob finished his song, nodded his thanks to the applause, and announced a short break. As the crowd dispersed, the young woman approached, stopping a respectful distance from his stool.

“Your lyrics,” she said without preamble. “They’re extraordinary.”

Jacob looked up, surprised not by the compliment but by the directness. Most people who complimented him did so awkwardly, as if afraid their words might somehow draw attention to his disfigurement.

“Thanks,” he said simply, reaching for his water bottle.

“I’m Elena,” she continued. “I run an open mic night at The Blue Note on Thursdays. We get a decent crowd, people who actually listen.” She paused, then added, “You should come play sometime.”

Jacob capped his water bottle slowly, considering. He’d never performed in a venue before, only here on his corner. The thought was both appealing and terrifying.

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally.

Elena nodded, seeming to understand his hesitation. She pulled a small card from her pocket and placed it on top of the bills in his guitar case.

“If you decide to come,” she said, “just show up before eight and tell them you spoke with me.” She smiled briefly, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the market crowd.

Jacob picked up the card, turning it over in his fingers. The Blue Note. A real venue with a real audience. People who came specifically to listen to music rather than those who happened upon it while shopping for organic kale.

He tucked the card into his shirt pocket, unsure whether he would ever use it, but unwilling to discard it. Then he picked up his guitar again, adjusted his position on the stool, and played-a new melody that had been forming in his mind, something with a different energy than his usual compositions.

As the afternoon wore on, he found himself returning to that melody again and again, adding to it, refining it. By the time he packed up to leave, the song had taken shape-a piece about unexpected invitations and doors left ajar, about the terror and possibility of stepping beyond established boundaries.

Jacob closed his guitar case, counted the day’s earnings-better than usual-and began the walk back to his apartment. The card in his pocket seemed to carry an unusual weight for such a small object. He wasn’t sure what he would do with it yet, but for the first time in a long while, he felt something unfamiliar stirring beneath his carefully constructed routine.

Curiosity. Possibility. Perhaps even hope.

Chapter Three

In the end, Jacob took a chance. His scarring had made him ever conscious of his fears. He was merciless with himself. If he let himself give into fear-he would never leave his apartment. So he pushed back against that instinct daily. That was why he busked. That was why he rode the bus despite the stares. He couldn’t afford to let his face ruin his life.

The Blue Note. He turned the card over between his fingers, the edges already softening from repeated handling over the three days since Elena had given it to him. Thursday night. Open mic. Eight o’clock.

Jacob sat at his small kitchen table, a cup of cooling coffee beside him, his notebook open but mostly empty. He’d started and abandoned several attempts at new lyrics, his mind too restless to settle on a cohesive theme. It wasn’t stage fright exactly-he performed every weekend-but this was different. The farmer’s market was anonymous. People passed by, some listened, some didn’t, and then they moved on, carrying their organic vegetables and artisanal breads. The Blue Note would be intentional. People went there specifically to listen to music. To judge it.

Outside, rain tapped against his window, a gentle spring shower that blurred the city lights into watercolor smears. Jacob pushed back from the table and moved to his easel in the corner. The canvas there held his latest work-a study of faces from the market. He’d been working on it for nearly two weeks, the oils still wet in places.

That night, he quickly sketched fresh faces he remembered from the market. Among them was Elena’s-high cheekbones, a serious brow, eyes that had looked at him directly instead of sliding away. Something about the process helped him process people, understand them beyond his initial impressions.

He spent the most time on the elderly woman’s face-his most faithful market audience member. Her features were a map of decades, each line earned through laughter or worry or contemplation. Jacob imagined what her first love was like back in the day, maybe 1952, when the world was recovering from one war and bracing for cold possibilities. He imagined her young and vital, dancing to jazz in a crowded club, perhaps not unlike The Blue Note. The first breath of spring after a harsh winter.

Jacob turned to a fresh page in his notebook and quickly made note of the lyrics that came to mind:

{i}First love in ‘52
When the world was black and blue
You danced anyway
Through the bruises of the day{/i}

He hummed a melody, testing how the words might flow, adjusting a phrase here, a note there. Jacob had hundreds of songs in his notebooks. Most of them never performed, never heard by anyone but himself. Some were too personal, others not quite finished to his exacting standards. But this one-this might work for The Blue Note.

After finalizing a set list-three original songs, none too revealing but all genuine-Jacob carefully placed his guitar in its case. Tomorrow night. He would go. The decision, once made, brought both anxiety and a strange sense of relief. Movement was always better than stagnation.

His small apartment was quiet except for the persistent rain and occasional distant sirens. Jacob moved through his nighttime routine methodically-teeth brushed, face washed (gently around the scars, which sometimes grew sensitive to changing weather), a brief stretch to release the tension his body collected throughout the day.

Just before he went to bed, he stood at his window overlooking the rain-slicked street below. The prayer came to him as it always did, not religious in the traditional sense, but a ritual of gratitude, nonetheless. Just as Father McCauley had taught him in the group home after the attack, when nightmares kept him from sleep and anger threatened to consume him.

“Thank you, God, for this wonderful day,” he whispered, watching a solitary figure hurry through the rain below, an umbrella tilted against the wind. “Thank you for the music. Thank you for the chance to share it.”

And then, deviating from the memorized words: “Please help me find the guts to try this.”

Jacob slept better that night than he had in weeks, his dreams for once not of snarling dogs or mocking laughter but of melodies still forming, of possibilities not yet explored.

Morning came with surprising swiftness. Thursday. Work first-eight hours of precise welding, the meditative focus of joining metal to metal, creating something that would hold against pressure. Then home to shower, to choose clothes with slightly more care than usual, to eat a light dinner that wouldn’t sit heavy in a nervous stomach.

By seven thirty, Jacob stood outside The Blue Note, guitar case in hand. The venue was smaller than he’d imagined, wedged between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop on a street known for its independent businesses. A small neon sign buzzed above the door, casting a blue glow that pooled on the damp sidewalk. Through the windows, he could see a modest stage at the far end, tables filled with people nursing drinks, the warm amber lighting creating an intimate atmosphere.

For a moment, Jacob considered turning around, heading back to the safety of his apartment. His scars seemed suddenly more prominent, his songs less worthy. But then he remembered Elena’s direct gaze, her words: “Your lyrics are extraordinary.” Not his face, not his voice-his lyrics. The words he crafted, the stories he told.

Jacob took a deep breath and pushed open the door, stepping into the warmth of The Blue Note-maybe into a new future.

Chapter Four

He got a soda and lime from the bar and found a corner to wait. His gaze tracked across the room, cataloging details-the vintage jazz posters on exposed brick walls, the mismatched chairs that somehow created a coherent aesthetic, the small sound system that looked professional despite its compact size.

The bar filled up fast. The open mic night was apparently a popular event, though not quite the usual bar crowd. These people were attentive, earnest in their appreciation of music rather than simply seeking background noise for their drinking. Notebooks and sketchpads dotted the tables alongside glasses of wine and craft beers.

Jacob spotted Elena near the small stage, clipboard in hand, speaking with a young man who clutched a harmonica. When she glanced up and noticed Jacob, she offered a small nod of acknowledgment before returning to her conversation. That was enough-no effusive greeting needed, just confirmation that his presence was registered, that his place in the lineup was secure.

The acts were varied. Some jazz instrumentals performed by a trio of college-aged musicians; a middle-aged man with a weathered face singing folk songs that spoke of railroads and highways; two young women harmonizing over delicate ukelele chords. A Black girl named Jet had a beautiful voice that flowed like smoke around her minimalist piano accompaniments. Jacob found himself transfixed, mentally sorting through his repertoire, thinking he had several songs that would fit her voice and persona. Perhaps someday he might offer one to her, though the thought of such a direct artistic connection made his palms sweat.

Between acts, the crowd mingled, offering encouragement and critique in equal measure. Jacob remained in his corner, nursing his soda water, guitar case propped against his leg. A few curious glances came his way-his scars always drew attention-but here, among artists, the looks held less pity and more assessment, as if his disfigurement might be just another form of expression.

“Next up,” Elena announced into the microphone, “a newcomer to The Blue Note but not to music. Please welcome Jacob Whitney.”

A smattering of polite applause followed as Jacob rose, picked up his guitar case, and made his way to the stage. The short walk felt eternal, each step weighted with possibility and doubt. But as he mounted the small platform and pulled out the wooden stool provided, something shifted. The lights aimed at the stage created a gentle barrier, transforming the audience into silhouettes, their features blurred just as his own must be from their perspective.

Jacob settled his guitar on his knee, adjusted the microphone, and found himself suddenly peaceful. This was familiar territory after all-just him and his music, the language in which he was most fluent.

“This song,” he began, his voice low but clear, “came to me while watching an elderly woman who visits the farmer’s market every weekend. She always sits on the same bench, listens to my whole set, leaves a five-dollar bill in my case, and never says a word.”

His fingers found the strings, plucking a gentle, wistful introduction.

“I started wondering about her life, about the stories behind her eyes. I imagined her young, maybe nineteen or twenty, in the spring of 1952. I call this ‘Raggedy Annie’s Lost Love.’”

The melody that emerged was deceptively simple, a folk progression that carried hints of early jazz influences. Jacob’s voice, smoky and warm, filled the small venue as he began to tell the story he’d created for his silent patron.

The song painted a picture of young Annie, nicknamed “Raggedy” for her patched dresses and untamable auburn hair, working at a diner in post-war America. It spoke of her meeting a young man recently returned from Korea, still carrying the war in his eyes but finding peace in her laughter. Their courtship unfolded through spring picnics and dancing to records in her boarding house common room when the house mother wasn’t looking.

The chorus spoke of promises made beneath flowering trees, of plans for a small house with a garden, of children with her hair and his steady hands.

But the song took a turn as summer approached. The young man’s nightmares grew worse, his moods unpredictable. One morning, Annie found only a note-he couldn’t bear to bring his darkness into her light. He’d re-enlisted, shipped out again, this time to a place where he felt his demons belonged.

Jacob’s voice grew softer as he sang of Annie waiting for letters that came less and less frequently until finally an official notification arrived instead.

The final verse jumped decades ahead, re-imagining Annie as the elderly woman at the market, still carrying that springtime love seventy years later, finding echoes of it in melodies played by a scarred young man whose music spoke of both pain and possibility.

As the last notes faded, The Blue Note fell completely silent. Jacob kept his head bowed over his guitar for a moment, suddenly uncertain, wondering if he’d misjudged the venue, the audience, himself.

Then the applause began-not the polite acknowledgment that had greeted him, but something more fervent. He looked up to see the silhouettes leaning forward, hands coming together with genuine appreciation. In the corner, a server had paused with a tray of drinks, listening. Near the bar, two people wiped at their eyes.

And in the back, barely visible in the dim light, stood an elderly woman with a familiar posture, her hand raised in what might have been recognition, or perhaps blessing.

Jacob felt his throat tighten. He nodded his thanks to the audience, cleared his throat, and spoke into the microphone again.

“I have two more, if you’ll have them.”

The crowd’s enthusiastic response left no doubt. As Jacob began his second song, he felt something unfamiliar unfolding within him-not quite belonging, not yet, but perhaps the possibility of it. A connection to these strangers through the stories he wove, a bridge built of melody and verse that spanned the divide his scars had created.

For these few minutes on stage, Jacob Whitney was not defined by the tragedy etched upon his face, but by the beauty he had created in its aftermath.

pon his face, but by the beauty he had created in its aftermath.

Chapter Five

Jacob slipped out of The Blue Note without lingering for the final acts. The rush of performing had left him both exhilarated and drained-too many eyes on him at once, too many emotions crashing through his carefully maintained walls. Elena had caught his eye as he packed up his guitar, given him a thumbs-up and mouthed “Next week?” He’d nodded noncommittally before weaving through the crowd toward the exit.

Outside, the night air was cool against his flushed skin. A sense of satisfaction settled over him as he adjusted his grip on his guitar case. He had mastered fear once more and connected with an audience-real people who had come to listen, not just passersby who happened to notice him. Some had even approached him after his set, awkward but genuine in their praise.

Jacob walked slowly, the city quieter now as Thursday night eased toward Friday morning. He thought of his performance, trying to see how he could have made it better. The second song had started too fast; he should have taken more time with the intro. His voice had cracked slightly during the bridge of the third. And he’d rushed through his stage banter, uncomfortable with speaking rather than singing.

He made some mental notes about a proper rehearsal routine. If-and it was still a significant if-he returned to The Blue Note, he would need to polish his performance, treat it with the same precision he applied to his welding. Perhaps he could record himself practicing, listen back with a critical ear.

Twelve blocks stretched between The Blue Note and his apartment. Jacob walked home instead of taking the bus; he had energy to burn off before sleep would come. His footsteps echoed on the sidewalk, a steady rhythm that helped organize his thoughts.

Had that really been the elderly woman from the market in the back of the venue? It seemed unlikely-coincidental in a way life rarely was. More probably just someone of similar age and bearing, the dim lighting and his own imagination filling in the details. Still, the image lingered, along with the curious sense that his fictional “Raggedy Annie” had somehow transcended imagination.

By the time Jacob reached his apartment, his mind had finally quieted. He placed his guitar carefully in its stand, hung his jacket, and went through his nighttime routine. As he lay in bed, he whispered his prayer of thanks with a new line: “Thank you for the gift of being heard.”

The next day, he was back at his routine. The alarm at dawn, coffee black and strong, an hour with his guitar working on new material, then the methodical exercise regime that kept his body as disciplined as his mind. The shop was busy with a rush order, which suited Jacob perfectly. The focus required for precision welding left no room for dwelling on the previous night.

His coworkers noticed something different, though. Martinez, who operated the burn table, commented that Jacob seemed “less gloomy than usual” during their lunch break. Jacob had simply shrugged, unused to personal observations, but found himself humming softly as he returned to his station.

When Saturday arrived, Jacob felt the familiar anticipation as he packed his guitar and headed for the farmer’s market. The morning was pristine, the kind of spring day that hinted at the summer to come without the oppressive heat. The market was crowded, vibrant with colorful produce and weekend shoppers.

He set up in his usual corner, the acoustics wrapping around him like a familiar blanket. The first few songs came easily, his fingers finding the strings without conscious thought, his voice carrying across the market. The crowd formed and dispersed in its usual rhythm, some staying for several songs, others pausing briefly before continuing their shopping.

It was during his second set, as he was midway through a new composition, that he noticed the girl, Jet, watching him from the edge of the gathered listeners. Her presence was surprising-The Blue Note and the farmer’s market seemed like separate worlds, and he hadn’t expected them to intersect beyond his own movement between them.

She stood with quiet confidence, her head slightly tilted as she listened, wearing a vintage dress that seemed both carefully chosen and effortlessly stylish. Her natural hair frizzed a halo around her face, catching the sunlight in a way that made Jacob wish he had his sketchbook.

When he finished the song, he took a sip of water and, in a decision that surprised even himself, set his guitar aside. He took a breath, stopped playing, and addressed the small crowd.

“Taking a short break,” he announced. “Back in fifteen.”

As the listeners dispersed, Jacob stepped toward Jet, each step requiring more courage than he’d needed to walk into The Blue Note. Talking to people-especially people he admired-was infinitely harder than performing for them.

“You were at the Blue Note,” he said simply. He immediately regretted the obviousness of the statement.

“And now you’re here,” she replied, her voice carrying the same smoky quality it had when she sang. “Full circle.”

It turned out she was there to see him. His songs had impressed her at the open mic night.

“Your songs have something real,” she said as they sat, leaving a respectful distance between them. “Not trying to sound like what’s on the radio or copying someone else’s style. That’s rare.”

Jacob felt heat rising in his face that had nothing to do with the spring sunshine. “Thanks,” he managed. “Your voice-your performance was amazing too.”

Jet smiled, the expression transforming her serious face. “I’ve been going to The Blue Note for almost a year. Elena’s good people-gives honest feedback, creates a space where you can try new things.”

They talked about music, about influences and aspirations, about the challenge of creating something authentic in a world that rewarded imitation. Jet spoke about growing up in a house full of jazz records, about studying classical piano before finding her own sound. Jacob shared less, as was his nature, but found himself more comfortable than he expected.

“I had this idea,” Jet said eventually, looking slightly hesitant for the first time. “That song you did-the one about spring of ‘52. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The melody, the story. I wondered if...”

“If?” Jacob prompted when she paused.

“If you ever collaborate. I heard some potential harmonies, maybe a counter-melody that could weave through the bridge. Different perspective, same story.”

Jacob blinked, caught off guard. Collaboration meant working closely with someone else, sharing his creative process, opening himself to input and potential rejection. It meant someone seeing the messy early drafts, not just the polished performance.

“I’ve never-” he began, then stopped himself from automatically refusing. “I could think about it.”

Jet nodded, seeming to understand the magnitude of what she was asking. “No pressure. Just an idea.” She reached into a small bag slung across her body and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “My number. If you decide you want to try.”

Jacob accepted the paper, carefully tucking it into his pocket. “I should get back to my spot,” he said, nodding toward his guitar and the small crowd beginning to reform.

“I’ll stay for the rest of your set, if that’s okay,” Jet replied. “Never know when inspiration might strike.”

As Jacob returned to his corner and picked up his guitar, he felt an unfamiliar lightness. For most of his life, his music had been a solitary refuge, a place where his scars didn’t matter because no one was looking at him. Now, for the second time in as many days, it had become something else-a bridge extending outward, an invitation to connection rather than a shield against it.

He positioned his fingers on the fretboard and began to play again, this time with an acute awareness of Jet listening, of all the people who might hear something in his music that resonated with their own hidden stories.

For the first time, Jacob found himself wondering not just what his music meant to him, but what it might mean to others.

Chapter Six

As Jacob finished his final song of the afternoon at the market, he found himself glancing over at Jet more frequently. Throughout his set, she had remained attentive, sometimes closing her eyes to focus on the music, occasionally nodding in appreciation at a particular lyric or chord progression. Her presence was both unnerving and oddly motivating-he played with more intention, more precision, knowing there were now ears that truly understood what he was attempting to create.

As he began packing up his guitar, his mind kept returning to the notebooks stacked in his apartment-songs he’d written but never performed, melodies that had always seemed to call for a different voice than his own. He had some songs that might fit her perfectly, compositions that had emerged from his imagination but never quite settled comfortably in his own repertoire.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Jacob approached Jet again, his fingers nervously adjusting the latches on his guitar case.

“I, uh-” he began, clearing his throat. “I just remembered. I have some songs that might fit your voice. Three of them, actually.”

Jet raised an eyebrow, looking intrigued. “Really?”

“They’ve been sitting in my notebooks,” Jacob continued, his words coming more quickly now. “Never felt right when I sang them. But your voice-the way you phrase things-they might work for you.”

“I’d love to hear them,” she said, smiling.

“And also,” he added, before his courage could desert him, “the collaboration idea would be worth doing. Only I don’t know how. I’ve never...” He trailed off, unsure how to explain that music had always been his solitary refuge, a conversation with himself rather than with others.

Jet seemed to understand without him finishing the thought. “We could start small. Meet somewhere, share some ideas, see what happens. No pressure.”

“There’s a coffee shop on Elm Street.” Jacob surprised himself with the suggestion. “Tomorrow afternoon? I could bring the songs, maybe a tape player, so you could listen.”

“Four o’clock?” Jet suggested.

Jacob nodded, already mentally cataloging which songs to bring, how best to present them, what he would need to prepare.

“It’s a date then,” Jet said, then quickly added, “A musical date. For collaboration.”

“Right,” Jacob agreed, relief and anxiety mingling in his chest. “For the music.”

Sunday afternoon found Jacob arriving at Riverbank Coffee twenty minutes early, securing a corner table away from the main traffic of the small shop. The place was a local institution, housed in a converted Victorian home with wooden floors that creaked pleasantly and large windows that filled the space with natural light. Jazz played softly through hidden speakers-not loud enough to interfere with conversation but present enough to fill any awkward silences.

He’d spent the morning in a state of focused preparation: selecting three songs from his collection that he thought would suit Jet’s voice, recording simple demos on his old cassette player, neatly copying the lyrics and chord progressions onto fresh paper. He’d chosen carefully-one bluesy number about resilience, one more contemplative piece about seeing beauty in unexpected places, and a third with jazz influences that spoke of finding one’s voice in a noisy world.

As he arranged his materials on the table-the portable tape player, a pair of headphones, the lyric sheets, his notebook for additional notes-Jacob tried to ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach. This wasn’t a date; it was a professional meeting between two musicians. Yet he’d still found himself spending more time than usual selecting his clothes-settling on a dark blue button-down that Jackson’s wife had once commented made his eyes “pop” during a company Christmas party, paired with his least-worn jeans.

At precisely four o’clock, the bell above the door chimed, and Jet entered. She moved with the same quiet confidence he’d noticed at the market, her gaze sweeping the room before settling on him. Today she wore a vintage-inspired jumpsuit in deep burgundy, her hair pulled back with a patterned scarf, silver earrings catching the light as she made her way through the scattered tables.

“Hi,” she said simply as she reached him, slipping into the chair across from his. “Nice spot.”

“They don’t mind if people stay a while,” Jacob explained, suddenly aware of how prepared he looked with all his materials arranged before him. “And the coffee’s good.”

“Clearly, you’ve done this before,” Jet observed, nodding toward his organized setup.

Jacob shook his head. “Never. I just-” he hesitated, then decided on honesty. “I don’t like being unprepared.”

“I can respect that,” she said with a small smile. “Mind if I grab a coffee before we start?”

While Jet ordered her drink-an iced chai latte with an extra shot of espresso-Jacob took several deep breaths, reminding himself why he was here. The music. Focus on the music. When she returned, settling comfortably into her chair, he found his professional voice.

“I brought three songs,” he explained, sliding the lyric sheets across the table. “They’re all finished pieces, but I’ve never performed them. They always felt like they needed...” he searched for the right words, “ ... a different perspective.”

Jet examined the lyrics, her expression thoughtful. “These are good,” she said after a moment. “Really good. The imagery is...”

“You haven’t heard them yet,” Jacob pointed out.

“True,” she acknowledged with a small laugh. “But lyrics this strong usually come with melodies to match.” She tapped the headphones. “May I?”

Jacob nodded, handing her the headphones and pressing play on the first tape. As Jet listened, her eyes closed, one hand lightly tapping rhythm on the table, the other occasionally marking a note on the lyric sheet with a pen she’d pulled from her bag. Her face was expressive, revealing each emotional shift in the music, each moment that resonated.

Jacob watched her reactions more intently than he’d ever watched anyone listening to his music before. When she smiled at a particular line in the second song, he felt a surge of satisfaction that far exceeded any applause he’d received. When her brow furrowed slightly during a bridge in the third, he immediately recognized what had always felt slightly off to him as well.

When the last song ended, Jet removed the headphones carefully, setting them on the table between them. For a moment, she said nothing, and Jacob felt his anxiety returning. Then she looked up at him with an expression of genuine appreciation.

“These aren’t just good, Jacob. They’re exceptional. Especially the second one-’Hidden Light’? That chorus is going to be in my head for days.”

Relief washed over him. “You want them?”

“If you’re serious about offering them, absolutely. But I’d rather do this as a proper collaboration.” She slid the annotated lyric sheets back to him, her neat handwriting marking potential adjustments, alternative phrasings, questions about the emotional intent behind certain lines. “I’ve made some notes-places where I might change the phrasing slightly for my voice, or where I hear harmonies that could be added.”

Jacob studied her notes, impressed by her musical insight. “These are good thoughts,” he admitted. “I’ve never considered some of these approaches.”

“That’s the beauty of collaboration,” Jet said, leaning forward slightly. “You bring things I wouldn’t think of, I bring things you wouldn’t. The result is something neither of us could create alone.”

There was something in her earnestness that put Jacob at ease. This wasn’t about his scars or his solitude or the walls he’d built around himself. It was about the music-pure and simple.

“So,” he ventured, “how do we do this? Practically speaking.”

Jet considered for a moment. “I have access to a practice room at the community college where I teach piano part-time. We could meet there, work through the arrangements, record rough versions as we go.” She paused, then added, “Or if that’s too public, we could work at your place or mine.”

The thought of inviting someone into his apartment-his sanctuary-made Jacob tense slightly. Equally uncomfortable was the thought of entering someone else’s home, being surrounded by their life, their choices, their normalcy.

“The practice room sounds good,” he said finally. “Neutral ground.”

“Neutral ground it is,” Jet agreed with a knowing look that suggested she understood exactly what he wasn’t saying. “Wednesday evening? Around seven?”

Jacob nodded, opening his notebook to write down the details as Jet provided the address and room number. As he wrote, she took another sip of her drink, studying him over the rim of her glass.

“Can I ask you something?” she said when he looked up. “And feel free to tell me it’s none of my business.”

Jacob tensed, automatically expecting a question about his scars, preparing the practiced answers he kept ready for such moments.

“Why have you kept these songs hidden away?” she asked instead. “They’re too good to sit in a notebook.”

The question caught him off guard. He considered several responses before settling on the truth.

“Because they scared me,” he admitted quietly. “They felt too ... revealing.”

Jet nodded slowly, as if his answer confirmed something she’d suspected. “The best art usually is,” she said simply. “That’s what makes it worth sharing.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the jazz from the speakers flowing around them, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the windows. Jacob realized with surprise that he felt comfortable in this silence, in this moment of understanding with someone who saw his music for what it was-not a distraction from his scars, but an expression of what lived beneath them.

“I should let you enjoy the rest of your Sunday,” Jet said eventually, gathering her bag. “But thank you for trusting me with these.” She tapped the lyric sheets. “I promise to treat them with the respect they deserve.”

As she stood to leave, Jacob spoke again. “I meant to ask-is Jet your real name?”

She smiled, the expression transforming her serious face. “Juliet, actually. Juliet Turner. But I’ve been Jet since I was ten and decided Juliet was too fussy for someone who wanted to play in jazz clubs.”

“It suits you,” Jacob said.

“See you Wednesday, Jacob Whitney,” she replied, her use of his full name feeling like a small acknowledgment-of his talent, his identity beyond his scars, his existence as a whole person.

After she left, Jacob remained at the table, looking at her notes on his lyrics, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of his music taking on extra dimensions through someone else’s interpretation. He had expected to feel exposed, perhaps even violated by such input. Instead, he felt something closer to anticipation-a curiosity about what these songs might become when filtered through Jet’s understanding.

Chapter Seven

The days passed with Jacob clinging carefully to his routines-morning guitar practice, exercise, work, evening painting-but with one notable difference. In quiet moments, his mind kept returning to the songs he’d shared with Jet, imagining how her voice might transform them. At night, he found himself jotting down additional notes, alternative bridges, counter-melodies that might complement her interpretations.

Wednesday arrived with a nervous energy that followed him throughout the day. At the fab shop, Jacob approached his supervisor during the morning break, a request he’d been rehearsing in his mind.

“George,” he said, standing straighter than usual. “I was wondering if I could leave an hour early today. I’ve got a ... music thing.”

Gaines, a barrel-chested man with thirty years of welding experience etched into the lines around his eyes, looked surprised. In the two years Jacob had worked there, he had never been late, never missed a day, never asked for special accommodation.

“A music thing, huh?” Gaines considered him for a moment. “You got all the repairs on the Billings order done?”

“Yes, sir. And I’ve already prepped tomorrow’s materials.”

Gaines nodded slowly. “Alright then.” He turned to head back to his office, then paused. “This music thing-that what you do on weekends down at the market?”

Jacob blinked, surprised. “You know about that?”

“Course I do. My wife drags me there most Saturdays.” Gaines shrugged. “You’re good. Different from what I usually listen to, but good.”

The unexpected compliment stayed with Jacob throughout the day, a reminder of how little he knew about his coworkers’ perceptions of him. Unbeknownst to him, he was considered a top hand. The other welders appreciated his precision, his focus, his willingness to learn. He was always eager to improve, never made the same mistake twice, and worked hard for the full eight hours he was there. His scars were simply part of him, like Martinez’s tattoos or Dawson’s limp-noted but irrelevant to the quality of his work.

At quarter past five, Jacob left the shop, stopping at home only long enough to shower away the day’s dust and change into clean clothes. He gathered his guitar, his notebook and the cassette recordings, then headed for the community college campus.

The arts building was smaller than he’d expected, a two-story brick structure set apart from the main campus. Student artwork and concert announcements livened the walls. Jacob followed Jet’s directions, finding Practice Room C at the end of a quiet hallway.

The room itself was modest but functional, with thick acoustic panels on the walls, a baby grand piano dominating one corner and various music stands scattered about. A small recording setup occupied a table against one wall: a cassette deck, microphones and a basic mixer.

Jet was already there, seated at the piano, working through what Jacob recognized as the bridge from “Hidden Light,” one of the songs he’d shared. She’d changed it slightly, adding jazz-influenced chord extensions that gave the melody a richer, more complex feel.

When she saw him in the doorway, she stopped playing and smiled. “Right on time,” she said, gesturing for him to enter. “What do you think of that variation?”

Jacob set down his guitar case and stepped closer to the piano. “Play it again?”

She did, this time singing softly along with the melody. Her voice brought the passage to life in a way his rough recording hadn’t captured, finding emotional nuances in the lyrics that he’d written but never fully expressed.

“That’s...” he searched for the right word, “ ... a lot better than what I wrote.”

“Different,” Jet corrected. “Not better. Just a different interpretation.”

For all his street smarts, Jacob was curiously innocent when it came to social interactions. Years of people avoiding his gaze had left him with little practice in the ordinary give-and-take of friendship. He didn’t want to make a mistake with Jet-not because he harbored romantic notions, but because he recognized her talent and genuinely wanted a friend who understood his music.

“I brought my notebook,” he said, pulling it from his bag. “Had some ideas about the arrangement-places where we could add harmonies, maybe an instrumental break after the second chorus.”

Jet’s eyes lit up. “I’ve been thinking about harmonies, too.” She patted the piano bench beside her. “Show me what you’re thinking.”

Jacob hesitated only briefly before sitting at the edge of the bench, leaving an appropriate space between them. He opened his notebook to the relevant page, where he’d sketched out a notation for vocal harmonies that would complement the main melody.

“Here,” he said, pointing to a particular passage. “If you take the melody, I could come in underneath with this harmony line. Kind of creates a conversation between the voices.”

Jet studied his notes, humming the line softly. “That works,” she said, nodding. “And here-” she played a chord with her left hand, “-if I add this underneath while we’re singing, it ties the whole section together.”

They worked like this for over an hour, moving between the piano and Jacob’s guitar, piecing together arrangements for the three songs. Jet’s formal musical training complemented Jacob’s intuitive approach; where he sometimes struggled to articulate why a particular change felt right, she could explain it in terms of music theory. Where she occasionally over thought a section, he could pull it back to its emotional core.

“You know what these songs need?” Jet said eventually, stepping back from the piano. “Percussion. Nothing heavy-maybe just brushes on a snare, light cymbal work.”

Jacob nodded thoughtfully. “I can hear that. Especially on the third song.”

“I know a guy,” Jet offered. “Marcus. Plays drums for the jazz ensemble here. He’s got a light touch, knows when to lay back.”

The casual suggestion of bringing in a third person made Jacob tense slightly. “Another person?”

Jet caught his hesitation. “Just for recording,” she clarified. “Not for the working sessions. These sessions-” she gestured between them, “-this is our space to figure things out.”

“Our space,” Jacob repeated, the phrase feeling foreign but not unwelcome.

“Unless you’d rather keep it just us all the way through,” Jet added, watching him carefully. “No pressure either way.”

Jacob considered it, weighing his discomfort with meeting someone new against what the songs truly needed. “Let’s see how the arrangements develop,” he said finally. “If they need percussion, then ... yeah. We can talk to your friend.”

Jet’s smile suggested she recognized the concession for what it was-a small step toward expanding his comfort zone. “Fair enough,” she said. “Ready to actually record a rough version of ‘Hidden Light’? See how our arrangement works all the way through?”

They positioned themselves near the microphones, Jacob with his guitar, Jet at the piano. The first take was halting, both of them too self-conscious about the recording. The second was better, but still disjointed.

“We’re over thinking it,” Jet said, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “Let’s just play it like we did earlier-no pressure, just feeling it out.”

“Forget the recording?” Jacob suggested.

“No, let it run. But let’s pretend it’s not there. Just you and me, working through the song.”

Jacob nodded, took a deep breath, and began the intro again. This time, when Jet’s voice joined his guitar, something clicked. Her interpretation of his lyrics brought out meanings he hadn’t fully realized were there. When he added his harmony in the chorus, their voices blended in a way that created something greater than either alone.

By the time they reached the end, both had forgotten the recording entirely, lost in the story the song was telling. As the last note faded, the practice room fell silent except for the soft hiss of the cassette tape still rolling.

“That,” Jet said quietly, “is what collaboration feels like.”

Jacob nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He’d never experienced music quite that way before-as a conversation rather than a monologue, as something alive and evolving between two people.

“We should listen to it back,” he said finally, setting his guitar aside.

They huddled around the cassette deck, shoulders almost touching as Jet rewound the tape and pressed play. As their recorded voices filled the room, Jacob studied their performance with his usual critical ear-noting where the tempo wavered slightly, where his harmony came in a beat too late-but also hearing the undeniable spark that had emerged.

“It needs work,” he said when the recording ended.

“Of course it does,” Jet agreed. “That’s just the skeleton. But it’s a good skeleton.”

Jacob checked his watch, surprised to find it was already past nine. “I should probably head out,” he said reluctantly. “Early start tomorrow.”

As they packed up their instruments and notes, Jacob felt an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment-different from the satisfaction of completing a perfect weld or finishing a painting. This was creativity shared, a bridge built not just from him to an anonymous audience, but directly to another person who understood what he was trying to express.

“Same time next week?” Jet asked as they stepped into the hallway.

“I could do Monday too,” Jacob found himself offering. “If you’re free.”

Jet’s smile widened slightly. “Monday works. And maybe this weekend I could stop by the market again, hear how you’re developing that new song you were working on.”

“I’d like that,” Jacob said, surprised to find he genuinely meant it.

As they parted ways in the parking lot-Jet to her small Honda, Jacob to catch the bus back to his apartment-he realized something had shifted. The carefully constructed routine of his life, built to protect him from rejection and disappointment, now had a deliberate opening. A space where something new could grow, not despite his scars but alongside them.

The thought followed him home, through his evening routine, and into his prayers before sleep. “Thank you,” he whispered into the darkness, “for newmelodies I couldn’t have found alone.

Chapter Eight

It was during their third session in the practice room that Jacob realized he had made a mistake. He had given her the songs not to sing but to own. The realization came as he watched Jet work through an arrangement of “Hidden Light,” changing both melody and lyrics with confident ease. The songs were becoming hers in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

As he sat quietly, guitar across his lap, a familiar tightness formed in his chest. His songs were deeply personal-fragments of his soul carefully arranged into melody and verse. Giving them away felt like surrendering pieces of himself. Even the thought of selling his work made him ill, which was why he’d never pursued publishing despite his prolific output.

“What do you think about changing this line?” Jet asked, turning to him with bright eyes. “’The shadows hold no fear for me’ could be ‘The shadows can’t exist in me.’ Gets to the same idea but feels more active, you know?”

Jacob nodded automatically, though something must have shown in his expression.

“Or we could keep it as is,” Jet added quickly. “They’re your songs, after all.”

“That’s just it,” Jacob mumbled. “They’re not, are they? Not anymore.”

Jet’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I gave them to you,” he clarified. “Not just to sing. To have.”

Understanding dawned on her face. “Jacob, I never meant to take ownership. I thought we were collaborating, not-”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted, deciding in that moment. “I knew what I was doing, even if I didn’t fully understand what it would feel like.” He faced up to it and let them go, his voice steadier than he expected. “Those three songs are yours now. To record, to perform, to change. Whatever you want to do with them.”

“But-”

“I gave them freely,” Jacob insisted. “And I’ll help finish the arrangements. But I need to be clear about this-going forward, anything else we work on together stays ... shared. These three are different.”

Jet studied him for a long moment. “You’re sure?”

Jacob nodded. “I’m sure.”

As was his usual mode, he faced his mistake, took responsibility, and then let it go. The collaboration was reward enough-the experience of creating with someone who understood his musical language, who could take his ideas and expand them in ways he never would have considered. He would simply be more careful with boundaries in the future.

Over the next three weeks, they met twice weekly, polishing the songs until they shone like diamonds. Jacob brought his perfectionism to the process, insisting on reworking sections until they flowed naturally, until each song felt complete and inevitable. Jet introduced Marcus, the drummer, during their fifth session. To Jacob’s surprise, the addition of a third person didn’t disrupt their dynamic-Marcus was quiet, intuitive, and focused entirely on serving the songs.

Their final recording session took place on a Sunday at a small studio Jet knew, where they laid down proper demos of all three songs. The owner, an old jazz musician named Ray who owed Jet a favor, handled the mixing with a delicate touch that preserved the emotional core of each piece.

“These are special,” Ray told them when they gathered to hear the final mixes. “Don’t know what you kids plan to do with them, but they deserve to be heard.”

Two days later, Jet called Jacob, her voice vibrating with excitement.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she said without preamble. “Ray sent the demos to this producer he knows at Meridian Records. They want to hear more. They’re talking about a development deal, Jacob. For me. For the songs.”

Jacob sat on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest. “That’s amazing, Jet. You deserve it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she said. “Your songs-”

“Our arrangements,” he corrected gently. “But your interpretations. Your voice.”

“We should celebrate,” she insisted. “Tomorrow night? That little place on Fourth Street with the good pasta?”

Jacob agreed, surprising himself with his own genuine enthusiasm.

The restaurant was more upscale than Jacob usually frequented, but the dim lighting and corner booth made him feel less exposed than he’d feared. Jet arrived in a vintage dress that sparkled subtly under the restaurant lights, her usual composure giving way to barely contained excitement.

“I brought something,” she said, reaching into her bag as they waited for their meals. She passed him an envelope. “Open it.”

Inside was a contract, meticulously drafted, assigning him co-writing credit on all three songs, along with a percentage of any future royalties. “I know you said they’re mine,” Jet explained, “but this makes it official-and fair. If anything ever comes from these songs, you’ll be properly compensated.”

Jacob stared at the document, touched by her integrity. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I did,” she said simply. “That’s how this works-how it should work. Partners respect each other’s contributions.”

They signed the contract over dessert, Jacob’s scarred hand sliding across the paper while Jet held it steady. Something about the ritual felt significant-not just the legal recognition, but the acknowledgment of what they’d created together.

The weeks that followed were a whirlwind-for Jet. She met with producers, lawyers, A&R representatives. Jacob returned to his routine-welding by day, painting by evening, busking on weekends. She called occasionally with updates, her excitement palpable even through the phone line. Once, she invited him to sit in on a meeting with the producers, but he declined politely, knowing his scarred face would only distract from their focus on Jet and her talent.

When the contract came-a real recording contract from Meridian Records-Jet insisted on showing it to him. They met at Riverbank Coffee, the place seeming smaller somehow, less significant against the backdrop of her expanding future.

“They love the songs,” she told him, unable to stop smiling. “Especially ‘Hidden Light.’ They think it could be the single.”

Jacob nodded, genuinely pleased for her. “I’m not surprised. It always was the strongest.”

“There’s one more thing,” Jet said, her expression growing more serious. “The label wants me to come to Chicago. That’s where their main studio is. They’re talking about starting recording next month.”

“Chicago,” Jacob repeated, the word falling between them like a stone in still water. “That’s ... a big move.”

“It is,” Jet agreed. “But it’s the opportunity I’ve been working toward for years. The chance to record professionally, to put my music out into the world.”

“You should take it,” Jacob said without hesitation. “You have to take it.”

“I know,” she admitted. “I already said yes. I leave in two weeks.”

They spent those two weeks meeting when they could-not to work on music, but simply to cement their brief friendship before geography pulled it apart. Jet came to the farmer’s market on his final Saturday before her departure, listening to his set from her now-familiar spot at the edge of the crowd. The elderly woman was there too, as always, and Jacob wondered if she would still visit when her songs eventually played on the radio.

Their goodbye was brief, neither of them comfortable with prolonged emotion. Jet hugged him quickly outside The Blue Note after her farewell performance, pressing a package into his hands.

“Don’t open it until I’m gone,” she instructed. “And Jacob? Thank you. For everything.”

Then she was walking away, her silhouette receding into the night, bound for a future bright with possibility while he remained in place, anchored by choice and circumstance.

The package contained a portable cassette recorder-newer and better than his old one-along with blank tapes and a note: “Keep making music. Keep sharing it. Someone is always listening.”

Jacob placed it carefully beside his bed, a tangible reminder of their brief collaboration. Then he got up the next morning at dawn as always, made his coffee black, played his guitar for precisely one hour, completed his exercise routine, and went to work.

He returned to his routine seamlessly, as if the weeks with Jet had been a detour rather than a new direction. Yet small changes persisted-he spoke more at work, accepting Martinez’s long-standing invitation to join the crew for Friday beers once a month.

Six months later, “Hidden Light” began playing on local radio stations. Jacob heard it first while welding, the shop’s radio tuned as always to the adult contemporary station that served as inoffensive background noise. The opening notes caught his attention immediately. Jet’s voice had been polished by professional production, the arrangement subtly altered to appeal to mainstream listeners.

One of his coworkers noticed his sudden stillness, MIG gun suspended mid-weld.

“You okay, Whitney?” Dawson called over.

Jacob resumed welding, the white glare reflecting in his hood. “Fine,” he replied. “Just like this song.”

In the months that followed, he received occasional royalty checks-modest sums that he deposited without fanfare. Once, a postcard arrived from Chicago, showing the city skyline at night. On the back, in Jet’s distinctive handwriting: “Still singing our songs. Still grateful. Still listening.”

Jacob pinned it above his easel, next to his sketches of market-goers and city scenes. Then he opened his notebook to a blank page and began making notes for another melody.

Eight months after Jet’s departure, Jacob’s life had found a new rhythm. His days still followed their careful structure-work, home, art, music-but The Blue Note had become a fixed point in his weekly routine. Elena had offered him a regular Thursday night slot after his third open mic appearance, impressed by both his growing stage presence and the loyal audience he was attracting

Turned out that his time with Jet was like casting bread upon the water. While Jacob remained in his small city, practicing his craft and slowly expanding his comfort zone, Jet was making waves in Chicago. Her debut LP, featuring “Hidden Light”, had garnered critical acclaim and modest commercial success. She’d begun touring as an opening act for more established artists, her distinctive voice and thoughtful lyrics finding an audience beyond what either of them had imagined.

What Jacob didn’t know was that in green rooms and industry gatherings, Jet went on and on to the industry people she met about Jacob’s book of songs. “This guy back home,” she’d tell producers, managers, fellow musicians, “has notebooks full of material that would make most songwriters weep. And he just keeps them to himself, plays them at a farmer’s market on weekends.”

At first, people nodded politely, accustomed to musicians hyping their hometown heroes. But as Jet’s own star rose, her persistent advocacy gained credibility. Some began to wonder about this scarred songwriter she described with such reverence.

One such person was Lydia Summers, the lead vocalist of the chart-topping rock band Arclight. She had been looking for a way out of her band and into a solo career for nearly a year. Creative differences with the band, coupled with exhaustion from their relentless touring schedule, had left her seeking a new musical direction-something more real, less commercially calculated. Backstage at a festival where they both performed, she met Jet and was struck by the emotional honesty of her songs.

“Who wrote ‘Hidden Light’?” Lydia had asked after Jet’s set.

“Co-written,” Jet had corrected. “With a friend back home. Jacob Whitney.”

The name meant nothing to Lydia, but the song had stayed with her. Three weeks later, during a rare break between tour legs, she’d tracked down Jet again.

“That songwriter you mentioned,” Lydia had said without preamble. “Jacob Whitney. Does he have more like ‘Hidden Light’?”

“Lots more. Notebooks full,” Jet had replied without hesitation. “He plays Thursday nights at a place called The Blue Note.”

Which is how, on a chilly fall evening, a rock superstar in dark sunglasses and an over-sized coat slipped into The Blue Note just before one of Jacob’s performances. The bar was packed, which was becoming the norm when word got out he was performing. These days, Jacob was a valued regular, his Thursday night sets drawing listeners who came specifically to hear him rather than just patrons who happened to be there.

By dint of effort, he had turned himself into a pro. The nervous, hesitant performer of his first open mic night had evolved into someone with genuine stage presence. He’d learned to tune his guitar with casual confidence while maintaining conversation with the audience. He’d developed a repertoire of stories to introduce his songs, brief narratives that provided context without over sharing. His scarred face was still the first thing people noticed, but increasingly, it was his music that they remembered.

As Jacob settled onto his stool that night, adjusting the microphone to his preferred height, he remained unaware of the industry powerhouse sitting in the shadows at the back of the room. He was focused instead on the set he’d planned, particularly the new song he’d been refining for weeks.

“Evening, everyone,” he began, his voice having found its public register-warm but slightly reserved, inviting without being overly familiar. “Thanks for coming out tonight.”

He began with two familiar compositions that the regular audience expected, creating a comfortable atmosphere before venturing into newer territory. His fingers moved deftly across the strings, his voice finding the emotional core of each piece. Between songs, he acknowledged the crowd with brief nods, still uncomfortable with extended eye contact but no longer avoiding the connection entirely.

Then, after a sip of water and a moment to gather himself, Jacob leaned slightly closer to the microphone.

“This next one is new,” he said, his voice quieter, drawing the audience in. “It came to me after reading an obituary in the Sunday paper-a man who’d died after sixty-two years of marriage. The notice was placed by his wife, just a few simple lines about a lifetime together. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, about what the next Sunday would feel like for her. I call it ‘Lonely Sundays.’”

His fingers found the opening chord, a minor seventh that hung in the air like a question without an answer. The melody that followed was deceptively simple, almost hymn-like in its dignified progression. When Jacob sang, his voice carried a weathered wisdom beyond his years:

{i}”First light through the curtains
The same as yesterday
the pillow beside you is cold where he used to lay
Coffee for one now
The paper unshared
Crossword puzzles and silence
where laughter once aired...”{/i}

The chorus rose with unexpected hope, Jacob’s voice finding strength as it climbed:

{i}”These lonely Sundays
They stretch out like roads
Each one, a step forward
Each one, a step home
To where you’ll meet again
When your journey’s complete
‘Til then, you’ll find ways
To bear these lonely Sundays...”{/i}

It was a piece about healing from loss, about finding meaning in continued existence when half of one’s world had vanished. Jacob sang it with restrained emotion, avoiding melodrama in favor of honest delivery. The final verse imagined the widow finding small rituals to honor her husband’s memory-planting his favorite flowers, making his special pancake recipe, telling his stories to grandchildren so they wouldn’t forget.

As the last note faded, The Blue Note remained silent for several heartbeats before erupting into applause. Jacob lowered his head slightly, still uncomfortable with direct appreciation, but allowed himself a small smile of acknowledgment.

Near the bar, Elena wiped a tear from her cheek before resuming her professional demeanor. In the back corner, Lydia Summers sat perfectly still, sunglasses removed, her expression a mixture of surprise and recognition.

Jacob continued his set, unaware of the impact his song had made on the industry veteran. He played for another forty minutes; the audience responding with growing enthusiasm as the night progressed. When he finally thanked them and stepped off the small stage, several regulars approached with compliments about the new material.

He was carefully packing his guitar away when Elena appeared at his side, looking slightly flustered-an unusual state for the typically composed bar owner.

“Someone wants to meet you,” she breathed. “Someone important.”

Jacob felt the familiar tightening in his chest, the instinctive wariness of unfamiliar social situations. “Important how?”

Elena glanced over her shoulder toward a booth in the back. “Music industry important. Like, incredibly important. Lydia Summers important.”

Jacob followed her gaze, recognizing with a jolt the woman sitting alone in the booth. Everyone who owned a radio knew Lydia Summers-lead vocalist of Arclight, winner of multiple Grammy awards, rock star in the truest sense. What he couldn’t fathom was why she would want to meet him.

“She’s been here the whole time?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious of every note he’d played.

Elena nodded. “Came in right before you started. Hasn’t taken her eyes off the stage once.”

Jacob hesitated, instinctively touching the most prominent scar on his cheek.

“What does she want?”

“Only one way to find out,” Elena replied, gently taking his guitar case from his hand. “I’ll keep this safe behind the bar. Go talk to her.”

The walk to Lydia’s booth felt longer than his daily commute. Jacob was acutely aware of the sidelong glances from other patrons, the whispers as people recognized the rock star in their midst. He kept his eyes fixed on the table, his posture rigid with tension.

Lydia stood as he approached, extending her hand with casual confidence. “Jacob Whitney. I’m Lydia Summers.”

“I know,” he said, accepting her handshake briefly before letting go. “I mean-everyone knows who you are.”

She gestured for him to sit opposite her. “And not enough people know who you are. Yet.”

Jacob slid into the booth, his discomfort evident. “I don’t understand.”

“Jet Turner,” Lydia said simply. “She’s been telling anyone who’ll listen about you and your songs. Normally I’d ignore that kind of talk-musicians are always hyping their friends. But when I heard ‘Hidden Light,’ and I knew she wasn’t exaggerating.”

Jacob remained silent, unsure how to respond to praise from someone of her fame.

“I came tonight to see if the rest of your material was as good,” Lydia continued, leaning forward slightly. “It’s better. Especially that new one-’Lonely Sundays.’ That song is extraordinary.”

“Thank you,” Jacob managed, genuinely appreciative but increasingly confused about the purpose of this conversation.

Lydia studied him for a moment, then seemed to make a decision. “I’ll get to the point. I’m leaving Arclight. Contract’s fulfilled after this tour. I’m going solo, and I need material for my first independent album.” She paused, letting her words register. “I want to record ‘Lonely Sundays.’ And I want to hear what else you’ve got.”

The directness of her proposal caught Jacob off guard. He thought of his notebooks filled with songs, of the compositions he’d been carefully crafting and protecting since his experience with Jet. He thought of Lydia’s massive platform, of millions of listeners who might hear his words, his melodies.

“I don’t sell my songs,” he said finally, the words coming out more firmly than he’d intended.

Rather than looking offended, Lydia seemed intrigued. “Jet mentioned you might say that. She said you’re protective of your work. I respect that.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a business card, sliding it across the table. “I’m not asking you to sell your songs. I’m asking if you’d consider a collaboration-proper co-writing credits, creative control over the final versions, fair royalty splits. Everything above board.”

Jacob looked at the card but didn’t take it. “Why me? You could work with any songwriter in the industry.”

“Because industry songwriters give me industry songs,” Lydia replied without hesitation. “Formulaic, focus-grouped tracks designed to check marketing boxes. Your songs are alive. They’re honest. That’s what I want for this album-something real.”

In the silence that followed, Jacob could hear the ambient sounds of The Blue Note-glasses clinking at the bar, quiet conversations, the soft jazz playing between live sets. He thought about Jet, about how their brief collaboration had expanded his understanding of what his music could be, of how it could reach beyond the boundaries he’d established.

“I’d need to think about it,” he said finally.

Lydia nodded, seeming to have expected this response. “Take your time. My number’s on the card. But I will say this-” she paused, making sure she had his full attention, “art isn’t meant to stay hidden. Not songs like yours.”

As she stood to leave, she added casually, “I’m in town for three more days. I’ll be at the Marriott if you decide you want to talk.” She pulled her coat around her shoulders, then hesitated. “That song-’Lonely Sundays’-it made me think of my grandmother after my grandfather passed. You captured something true there. Something important.”

With that, she was gone, leaving behind only her business card and the lingering possibility of a future Jacob had never imagined for himself.

That night, as he walked home through quiet streets, the card heavy in his pocket, Jacob thought about bread cast upon waters, about seeds planted without expectation of harvest. He thought about Jet, performing his songs hundreds of miles away, speaking his name to people who could change his life if he allowed it.

At his apartment, he sat at his small kitchen table and placed Lydia’s card beside his notebook. He opened to a blank page and wrote a single line: “Sometimes the world finds you, no matter how well you hide.”

Then he picked up his pencil and wrote-not lyrics this time, but a list. Pros and cons. Possibilities and risks. A roadmap for a journey he wasn’t sure he was ready to take, but one he was finally willing to consider.

Chapter Nine

The next morning, Jacob woke before his alarm. He’d slept poorly, his mind kept cycling through possibilities, weighing opportunities against the comfortable routine of his established life. Lydia Summers’ business card sat on his nightstand where he’d put it before attempting sleep. In the gray dawn light, it looked less intimidating-just a rectangle of heavy card stock with embossed lettering.

He went through his morning routine with mechanical precision, trying to create a space in his mind for the decision that loomed. As he sipped his coffee, staring out the window at the awakening city, he reached for his phone.

Jacob called her just after seven, early enough that he wondered if he might get her voicemail. Instead, she answered on the second ring, her voice alert.

“Lydia Summers.”

“It’s Jacob. Jacob Whitney. From last night.”

“Jacob.” The warmth in her voice was immediate. “I’m glad you called.”

“I was on my way to work,” he explained, glancing at the clock, “but I was hoping we could meet after. To talk.”

“Absolutely,” Lydia replied. “Name the time and place.”

Jacob hesitated for only a moment. “There’s a Starbucks on Cedar Street. I go there sometimes. Would six work?”

“Cedar Street Starbucks at six,” she confirmed. “I’ll be there.”

As Jacob prepared to end the call, he found himself adding, “I have a lot of songs, but I don’t know you well enough to winnow through them to find five or six that would fit you. I’d like to get the sense of who you want to be. Musically, I mean.”

The silence on the other end stretched long enough that Jacob wondered if the call had dropped. Then Lydia spoke, her voice thoughtful.

“That’s ... no one has ever asked me that question before. Who I want to be.” She paused again. “Thank you for asking it. I’ll see you at six, Jacob.”

The workday passed in the usual blur of the hammering of fitters and the actinic arc of welders, Jacob’s hands performing their tasks with practiced precision while his mind wandered to the evening ahead. He left the fabrication shop at five thirty, giving himself time to shower and change at home before the meeting.

At five fifty-five, Jacob pushed open the door to the Cedar Street Starbucks, a modern space with exposed brick walls and large windows overlooking the street. It was busy but not crowded, the after-work rush beginning to taper off. He liked this location for its back corner, a semi-secluded area with comfortable chairs and a table large enough to spread out notebooks.

He ordered a tall drip and claimed the corner space, arranging himself so he could see the door without being immediately visible to everyone who entered. Old habits die hard.

At precisely six, Lydia Summers walked in. She had made an effort to blend in-hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, minimal makeup, jeans and a gray sweater that wouldn’t draw attention. Still, she carried herself with the unmistakable confidence of someone accustomed to commanding spaces much larger than a coffee shop. Heads turned despite her attempts at anonymity.