Chapter 13

Jacob didn’t know what to think or how he should feel. The texts had started innocuously enough—first from Elena at The Blue Note, then from a couple of the regular market-goers who had his number. By the time he’d checked his phone after the session with Lydia, there were dozens of notifications, links to videos, questions about “that song with Lydia Summers.”

It was a measure of how confused he was that he invited her over to his apartment without a thought. The words had typed themselves before he’d considered the implications: Not in public. Not anymore. My place. I’ll send the address.

Only after sending it did he realize what he’d done—invited someone into his sanctuary, his carefully guarded private space. But there was no taking it back now, and honestly, where else could they talk? The videos had transformed him overnight from anonymous scarred musician to “Lydia Summers’ mysterious new collaborator.” His regular haunts were no longer safe from curious eyes.

Luckily, Jacob was a disciplined, tidy person. His apartment was always spotless, a habit ingrained from years in group homes where personal space was limited and cleanliness rigidly enforced. He moved through the rooms quickly, not to clean but to assess what he was revealing of himself.

His bedroom contained only the essentials—the bottom half of an old army bunk bed that he’d found at a surplus store, a simple dresser, a small bookshelf filled with dog-eared paperbacks arranged by author. No photographs, no decorations, nothing that spoke of connection to others. Just calm, organized functionality.

The second bedroom had been converted to his art studio. Sketches covered one wall. Canvases leaned against the other walls—portraits mostly, strangers captured in moments of unguarded emotion. The elderly woman from the market appeared in several, her face reimagined across different eras of her life. A half-finished painting stood on the easel—Jacob’s interpretation of the father and daughter from the park, the inspiration for “The Father Song.” He considered covering it, then decided against it. If Lydia was entering his world, she might as well see it completely.

The main living area was his music section—guitar stands holding his acoustic and a rarely-used electric, shelves of vinyl records organized by genre and era, his old cassette player, and a small digital recording setup. Notebooks filled one entire bookshelf, each labeled by date, containing years of careful observation transformed into song.

Jacob was just putting on water for coffee when the doorbell rang. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for this new level of exposure, and opened the door.

Lydia stood in the hallway, dressed casually in jeans and an oversized sweater, her hair tied back in a loose knot.

Jacob stepped back, wordlessly inviting her in. As she crossed the threshold, he was suddenly, acutely aware of his scars—not because Lydia was staring at them (she wasn’t), but because the videos had made them a subject of public discussion in a way they hadn’t been since the attack itself.

“Nice place,” Lydia said, glancing around the apartment. Her eyes lingered on the wall of vinyl. “Impressive collection.”

“Thanks,” Jacob replied, taking the bag of pastries and setting it on the small kitchen counter. “Coffee? It’s almost ready.”

“Please.”

An awkward silence fell as Jacob prepared two mugs of coffee. Lydia moved slowly around the living room, studying his music collection, the arrangement of his instruments, the stacks of notebooks.

“These are all songs?” she asked, gesturing to the shelves of notebooks.

Jacob nodded. “Since I was fourteen.”

She let out a low whistle. “That’s ... prolific.”

“It’s just what I do,” he said simply, bringing the coffee mugs to the small table by the window. “I observe. I write.”

Lydia accepted her mug with a grateful nod, but her attention had shifted to the half-open door of the other room. “What...?”

“My painting room,” Jacob confirmed. “You can look if you want.”

She hesitated, seeming to understand the significance of the invitation. “Are you sure?”

“You’re already here,” he said with a slight shrug. “Might as well see it all.”

Lydia set down her coffee and moved toward the door, pushing it open fully. Jacob stood in the doorway, watching her reaction as she took in his other form of creative expression.

“Jacob,” she breathed, moving among the canvases. “These are extraordinary.”

He said nothing, allowing her the space to absorb the images—strangers on buses, market-goers, the elderly woman in various settings, children playing, couples arguing, individuals lost in private moments of joy or sorrow.

When she reached the easel, she stopped. “Is this the father and daughter?” she said softly. “From the park?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t just write about them. You captured them here, too?”

Jacob nodded. “Different mediums, same observation.”

Lydia turned to him, her expression thoughtful. “This is how you see the world, isn’t it? Not just passing through it but really seeing it. Capturing it. Preserving moments that most people miss.”

It was the most accurate description of his process that anyone had ever offered. Not creating—witnessing. Not inventing—honoring what already existed.

“I suppose so,” he said.

They returned to the living room, the initial awkwardness partially dissolved by Lydia’s genuine appreciation of his work. As they sat at the small table, coffee mugs steaming between them, Jacob finally addressed the reason for her visit.