Chapter 4

He got a soda and lime from the bar and found a corner to wait. His gaze tracked across the room, cataloging details—the vintage jazz posters on exposed brick walls, the mismatched chairs that somehow created a coherent aesthetic, the small sound system that looked professional despite its compact size.

The bar filled up fast. The open mic night was apparently a popular event, though not quite the usual bar crowd. These people were attentive, earnest in their appreciation of music rather than simply seeking background noise for their drinking. Notebooks and sketchpads dotted the tables alongside glasses of wine and craft beers.

Jacob spotted Elena near the small stage, clipboard in hand, speaking with a young man who clutched a harmonica. When she glanced up and noticed Jacob, she offered a small nod of acknowledgment before returning to her conversation. That was enough—no effusive greeting needed, just confirmation that his presence was registered, that his place in the lineup was secure.

The acts were varied. Some jazz instrumentals performed by a trio of college-aged musicians; a middle-aged man with a weathered face singing folk songs that spoke of railroads and highways; two young women harmonizing over delicate ukelele chords. A Black girl named Jet had a beautiful voice that flowed like smoke around her minimalist piano accompaniments. Jacob found himself transfixed, mentally sorting through his repertoire, thinking he had several songs that would fit her voice and persona. Perhaps someday he might offer one to her, though the thought of such a direct artistic connection made his palms sweat.

Between acts, the crowd mingled, offering encouragement and critique in equal measure. Jacob remained in his corner, nursing his soda water, guitar case propped against his leg. A few curious glances came his way—his scars always drew attention—but here, among artists, the looks held less pity and more assessment, as if his disfigurement might be just another form of expression.

“Next up,” Elena announced into the microphone, “a newcomer to The Blue Note but not to music. Please welcome Jacob Whitney.”

A smattering of polite applause followed as Jacob rose, picked up his guitar case, and made his way to the stage. The short walk felt eternal, each step weighted with possibility and doubt. But as he mounted the small platform and pulled out the wooden stool provided, something shifted. The lights aimed at the stage created a gentle barrier, transforming the audience into silhouettes, their features blurred just as his own must be from their perspective.

Jacob settled his guitar on his knee, adjusted the microphone, and found himself suddenly peaceful. This was familiar territory after all—just him and his music, the language in which he was most fluent.

“This song,” he began, his voice low but clear, “came to me while watching an elderly woman who visits the farmer’s market every weekend. She always sits on the same bench, listens to my whole set, leaves a five-dollar bill in my case, and never says a word.”

His fingers found the strings, plucking a gentle, wistful introduction.