Chapter 9

Eight months after Jet’s departure, Jacob’s life had found a new rhythm. His days still followed their careful structure—work, home, art, music—but The Blue Note had become a fixed point in his weekly routine. Elena had offered him a regular Thursday night slot after his third open mic appearance, impressed by both his growing stage presence and the loyal audience he was attracting

Turned out that his time with Jet was like casting bread upon the water. While Jacob remained in his small city, practicing his craft and slowly expanding his comfort zone, Jet was making waves in Chicago. Her debut LP, featuring “Hidden Light”, had garnered critical acclaim and modest commercial success. She’d begun touring as an opening act for more established artists, her distinctive voice and thoughtful lyrics finding an audience beyond what either of them had imagined.

What Jacob didn’t know was that in green rooms and industry gatherings, Jet went on and on to the industry people she met about Jacob’s book of songs. “This guy back home,” she’d tell producers, managers, fellow musicians, “has notebooks full of material that would make most songwriters weep. And he just keeps them to himself, plays them at a farmer’s market on weekends.”

At first, people nodded politely, accustomed to musicians hyping their hometown heroes. But as Jet’s own star rose, her persistent advocacy gained credibility. Some began to wonder about this scarred songwriter she described with such reverence.

One such person was Lydia Summers, the lead vocalist of the chart-topping rock band Arclight. She had been looking for a way out of her band and into a solo career for nearly a year. Creative differences with the band, coupled with exhaustion from their relentless touring schedule, had left her seeking a new musical direction—something more authentic, less commercially calculated. Backstage at a festival where they both performed, she met Jet and was struck by the emotional honesty of her songs.

“Who wrote ‘Hidden Light’?” Lydia had asked after Jet’s set.

“Co-written,” Jet had corrected. “With a friend back home. Jacob Whitney.”

The name meant nothing to Lydia, but the song had stayed with her. Three weeks later, during a rare break between tour legs, she’d tracked down Jet again.

“That songwriter you mentioned,” Lydia had said without preamble. “Jacob Whitney. Does he have more like ‘Hidden Light’?”

“Lots more. Notebooks full,” Jet had replied without hesitation. “He plays Thursday nights at a place called The Blue Note.”

Which is how, on a chilly fall evening, a rock superstar in dark sunglasses and an over-sized coat slipped into The Blue Note just before one of Jacob’s performances. The bar was packed, which was becoming the norm when word got out he was performing. These days, Jacob was a valued regular, his Thursday night sets drawing listeners who came specifically to hear him rather than just patrons who happened to be there.

By dint of effort, he had turned himself into a pro. The nervous, hesitant performer of his first open mic night had evolved into someone with genuine stage presence. He’d learned to tune his guitar with casual confidence while maintaining conversation with the audience. He’d developed a repertoire of stories to introduce his songs, brief narratives that provided context without over sharing. His scarred face was still the first thing people noticed, but increasingly, it was his music that they remembered.

As Jacob settled onto his stool that night, adjusting the microphone to his preferred height, he remained unaware of the industry powerhouse sitting in the shadows at the back of the room. He was focused instead on the set he’d planned, particularly the new song he’d been refining for weeks.

“Evening, everyone,” he began, his voice having found its public register—warm but slightly reserved, inviting without being overly familiar. “Thanks for coming out tonight.”

He began with two familiar compositions that the regular audience expected, creating a comfortable atmosphere before venturing into newer territory. His fingers moved deftly across the strings, his voice finding the emotional core of each piece. Between songs, he acknowledged the crowd with brief nods, still uncomfortable with extended eye contact but no longer avoiding the connection entirely.

Then, after a sip of water and a moment to gather himself, Jacob leaned slightly closer to the microphone.

“This next one is new,” he said, his voice quieter, drawing the audience in. “It came to me after reading an obituary in the Sunday paper—a man who’d died after sixty-two years of marriage. The notice was placed by his wife, just a few simple lines about a lifetime together. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, about what the next Sunday would feel like for her. I call it ‘Lonely Sundays.’”

His fingers found the opening chord, a minor seventh that hung in the air like a question without an answer. The melody that followed was deceptively simple, almost hymn-like in its dignified progression. When Jacob sang, his voice carried a weathered wisdom beyond his years:

The chorus rose with unexpected hope, Jacob’s voice finding strength as it climbed:

It was a piece about healing from loss, about finding meaning in continued existence when half of one’s world had vanished. Jacob sang it with restrained emotion, avoiding melodrama in favor of honest delivery. The final verse imagined the widow finding small rituals to honor her husband’s memory—planting his favorite flowers, making his special pancake recipe, telling his stories to grandchildren so they wouldn’t forget.

As the last note faded, The Blue Note remained silent for several heartbeats before erupting into applause. Jacob lowered his head slightly, still uncomfortable with direct appreciation, but allowed himself a small smile of acknowledgment.

Near the bar, Elena wiped a tear from her cheek before resuming her professional demeanor. In the back corner, Lydia Summers sat perfectly still, sunglasses removed, her expression a mixture of surprise and recognition.