Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“I should probably lock up. It’s getting late.”
I stand up, immediately missing the warmth of her presence. “Right. Of course.”
She starts gathering the spread-out sheets of music. I catch her wrist, not grabbing, just touching. Just enough contact to make her look at me.
“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly, “that thing you were working on? It’s beautiful. And it’s not nothing.” I don’t wait for her to respond and leave, giving back the space I put myself in without permission.
rye
. . .
Music screams through the sound system of The Songbird. Loud, screeching wails of a singer who likely has the sorest throat when he’s done performing. Instead of going out to the main part of the bar, I turn into my closet sized office and drop my bag on to my desk. The force causes the papers to shift, exposing the edge of a notebook. I sigh, knowing damn well I’m going to have to track down the musician who left it here last night.
I sit down and move my bag to the floor before reaching for the worn leather cover. I’ve lost count of how many of these I’ve seen, found, and returned. There’s even a box behind the bar of these, lost and never found. For me, if I lost my journal of songs and notes, I’d be beside myself. Tearing every inch of my house, car, and guitar case apart to find it, and retracing my steps. These books are liquid gold and dangerous if they end up in the wrong hands.
Turning the cover to the first page, my hopes dim at the empty line where it says this book belongs to. A name should be there. It’s what I tell Lily all the time: Write your name. Lyrics are prized possessions. They’re your thoughts, actions, and the reactions of those around you.
With this one being blank, the only step is to toss it in the lost and found box with the other forgotten items musicians leave behind.
I turn the page instead.
The first few pages contain chord progressions in handwriting I don’t recognize. It’s clean, careful letters that spell out musical thoughts in a language even non-songwriters can read. Nothing earth shattering or a song I remember from last night’s session. After years of being in this business, I tend to remember most of everything I heard from the night before. It’s almost as if those songs play on repeat while I’m sleeping.
I continue to flip, reading a verse here and there, until page seven punches the air from my lungs.
Found myself in a city of second chances
Where the music cuts deeper than the pain
Where you can start over with nothing but the truth
And someone else’s abandoned refrain
My melody. The one I worked on two nights ago when he walked in. The tune I’ve hummed for weeks without finding words that fit. Except here they are, written in Darian’s handwriting, transformed into something beyond my imagination.
The chorus builds on the harmony he played that night:
She left her song unfinished in a room that holds too many secrets
But some melodies refuse to die
They wait for hands that understand their weight
For voices brave enough to try
My ribs tighten around my lungs. He didn’t just use my melody. He turned it into something else entirely, words that fit the music in ways I never imagined. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I flip through more pages, variations scattered across notebook paper, different approaches to the same progression. He’s labored over this since that night, working through possibilities, refining.
“Shit.” The word strangles in my throat. Fury blazes through my veins. Not because he stole from me, but because he made it beautiful.
And I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
Jovie appears in the doorway with a box of clean glasses. “You look like someone canceled Christmas and shot your dog.”
“Do you know where Darian lives?”
She freezes mid-step, glasses clinking in their box. “Why?”
“Because I need to have a conversation with him.”
“What kind of conversation?” Her voice carries the careful neutrality of someone who’s witnessed me lose my temper exactly twice in three years and recognizes the warning signs.
I close the notebook and stand, energy coursing through me. “The kind where I discover why he thinks he can take my music and transform it into his personal creative project.”
“Rye—”
“Don’t.” I thrust up my hand. “Just don’t.”
Jovie sets the glasses down and crosses her arms. “What happened?”
I show her the notebook, flipping to pages where my melody becomes his lyrics. Where my emotional fragments transform into something polished and purposeful.
“He wrote this about your song?”
“With my song. Using my song.” The distinction cuts deep, though I can’t explain why. “I need to know what grants him the right.”
“How?”
Her question gives me pause. I hadn’t told her about the night before, when I was here, and Darian walked in. Jovie doesn’t know that I sat at the piano with him and watched him take my song and mesh it eloquently with one of his. He did it so effortlessly too.