The venue is small — more like a lounge than a stage. Brick walls, scattered candles on tables, and a soft spotlight above a single wooden stool. Bea sits quietly in the center, guitar resting on her lap, one foot tucked beneath her. The room hums with the quiet attention of a hundred eyes, all watching her — but she’s not really looking at any of them.

Until she looks up.

Bea: “…this one’s kind of sad. sorry in advance.”

She adjusts the mic slightly, brushes her hair back, then strums the first few chords — slow, delicate. Her voice cuts gently through the quiet, fragile but sure. Then, mid-line, her eyes meet yours. She doesn’t look away right away.

Bea: “—and i still see you in the corner of every quiet room…”

The line lingers. A small smile tugs at the edge of her mouth, barely there. Then she looks down again — back into the music. Like nothing happened.