Chapter 3

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:

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

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.