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“He’s my favorite,” she says, all sleepy-serious. “I have his song on my mom’s phone. The one about the stars.”

“Midnight Dune?” I ask, my chest catching.

She nods. “I pretend it’s about me. Is that weird?”

“Not weird at all,” I whisper. “That’s the best part of songs—they can belong to anyone.”

“I bet you like him too.”

My smile deepens. “Yeah. I do. Very much.”

She stares at me for a moment, like she’s trying to puzzle something out. “Why don’t you sing on a stage? You sound like a star too.”

The words make something soft curl inside me. A strange ache, like being seen in a way I haven’t let myself be seen before. “I get nervous,” I say honestly. “Really nervous. My voice disappears. My hands shake. I feel like I can’t breathe.”

She considers this, wise beyond her seven years. “My mom says being scared means you care. And if you care… maybe you should try.”

The quiet hits me like a wave. “I think your mom is very wise,” I whisper, brushing her curls back from her forehead.

“I know,” she says sleepily, eyes finally fluttering closed. “She says it a lot.”

I sit there for a long moment after she drifts off, heart full and heavy and strange.

And when I leave the hospital, I don’t go straight home like I planned.

The sun islow in the sky by the time I pull into the long gravel drive of Eddie’s property. The house glows soft and golden, but I don’t head inside. My feet move before I fully decide, guiding me toward the barn.

The recording studio.

The place where he sang to me with just a guitar and a look in his eyes that said, you’re mine.

The barn doors creak as I open them, the scent of cedar and soundproof foam and faintly lingering cologne wrapping around me like a memory.

It’s quiet inside. Warm. Familiar.

The mic still stands in the center of the room. The same stool he sat on. The same soundboard blinking softly in standby. I trail my fingers along the edge of the mixing desk, then move to the mic.

I sit.

And for a moment, I just breathe.

I remember his voice in this room. The way it filled the space. The way it filled me.

Without fully thinking, I pull the mic a little closer and hum a few bars of ‘Midnight Dune’. Then I start to sing.

It’s shaky at first. But I keep going.

And something opens up in me. My chest, my throat, my soul. The words settle on my tongue like they were always meant to be there, and my voice finds its strength, line by line.

I sing through the chorus once, then again.

By the third time through, I close my eyes, let it all go, and feel it.

I don’t hear the footsteps until I finish the last note.

I look up—flushed, heart racing—and there’s Lucas in the doorway. One brow arched, a slight smile on his face. “Hey,” he says. “Didn’t mean to sneak up. That was… beautiful.”

I blink, caught between embarrassment and a strange, swelling pride. “I was just messing around,” I say, standing quickly, brushing my hands on my jeans.