Page 5 of Discordant Cultivation

Thirty-eight dollars for lamb. Forty-two for duck. Kieran’s rent money sitting on a plate.

“I’m not that h-hungry. Maybe just the salad?”

“Nonsense. You’re performing on the street, you need proper nutrition.” Vale’s smile was kind. “The pasta, then. And we’ll start with appetizers.”

He ordered wine—something Italian with a name Kieran couldn’t pronounce—while Kieran sipped water and tried not to fidget with his sleeves.

“So,” Vale said, settling back in his chair. “I’ve been thinking about your sound all day. That original piece you played—it reminded me of early Nick Drake. Intimate, confessional. But darker, and you mixed singing with spoken word, or was it rap? It’s quite different.”

Kieran’s pulse quickened. A real producer was comparing his music to Nick Drake? “I gr-grew up listening to him. And Elliott Sm-Smith, Sufjan Stevens...”

“I can hear those influences, but you’re doing something very unique when you play. Where did you learn to play like that?”

“Self-t-taught, mostly. YouTube videos when I h-h-have the data.” The words tumbled out easier than usual, excitement overriding the anxiety of his stutter. “I couldn’t afford lessons.”

“Impressive.” Vale leaned forward. “How long have you been performing on the street?”

“About t-t-two years. Since I aged out of foster care.” The admission slipped out before he could stop it.Too personal, too much information. But Vale’s expression didn’t change.

“And before that?”

Kieran found himself talking about Mrs. Ambrose, who’d let him practice in her basement for three months until the state moved him again, and about writing songs in group home bathrooms because they were the only places with decent acoustics. Vale listened like everything Kieran said mattered, and asked questions about his current favorites, what instruments he played, the technical aspects of his guitar work.It made him feel like a real musician instead of a charity case busking for change.

The wine arrived. Vale poured him a glass without asking his age or if he even wanted any, but Kieran wasn’t about to complain. “To new beginnings.”

He drank more than he should have, nerves loosening with each sip as Vale asked about his recording experience (none), his long-term goals (survival), and his dreams beyond street performance.

“I’d love to play real venues somed-day,” Kieran said. “C-coffee shops, open mic nights. Maybe record an EP if I ever save enough money.”

“Money shouldn’t be the barrier to good music,” Vale said.

“Yeah, but I don’t exactly have c-connections.”

“You have one now.”

The words hit like a punch to the chest. Kieran stared across the table at this man who could change everything with a phone call and make dreams real that had lived only in his head for years.

This is actually happening.

Their food arrived, but he barely tasted the pasta. He was too focused on Vale’s questions about his creative process, his musical inspirations, his thoughts on the current state of indie folk. Kieran always imagined a big name producer would be loud, boisterous and more than willing to talk over him. But Vale was quiet, and he always waited a few seconds in silence before saying anything, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“Tell me about yourself,” Vale said, refilling Kieran’s wine glass. “Beyond the music. Are you seeing anyone?”

The question was personal in a way that made his shoulders tense. Industry people were weird, though. Everyone knew that.

“No. No, I’m n-not dating anyone.”

“Good. Relationships can be... distracting when you’re building a career.” Vale’s fingers drummed once against the tablecloth. “You mentioned you were in foster care…does that mean your parents are no longer with us?”

Kieran’s chest went tight.Parents. Right.

“They’re not—they died when I was sixteen. C-car accident.” The words came out flat, the way he practiced over and over so he could say it without feeling the loss again. He took a big gulp of wine, letting the slight burn warm his stomach.

Vale’s expression shifted to something that might have been sympathy. “I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”

“It was a long t-time ago.”

Change the subject. Please.