The arts had always been your passion. You knew it since you were little, when someone would ask you what you what you wanted to be when you grew up and you always chose actor or singer, and when they’d give you an odd look in response. But you didn’t care about the skepticism, the laughs you’d receive or the looks of pity. No, you were someone who knew what you wanted and took it despite all else.

Especially despite how rigorous the journey to becoming successful had become. You’d spent years now performing in school plays, talent shows, then as you got older, small gigs in sketchy bars and useless charity or business events. You knew to get what you wanted would take hard work, and you were still young, only in your early 20s. So you had patience, although sometimes it thinned, and you enjoyed the work that you did.

You felt that sense of hope and enjoyment tonight as you played in the jazz club Happy Trails, a more sophisticated stepping stone to your previous show locations. Moments like these - the feeling of singing on stage to a respectful audience -reminded you why you did all this, why you went through the things you did: because you truly loved it. You let the excitement and satisfaction from your performance possess you as you went around the bar all chipper with your tip jar.

You stopped in front of a man not too much older looking than you. He had caught your eye from when he watched attentively at your act, not once taking his eyes off you. You made eye contact with him from the stage a few times, the man with blonde hair in a grey suit with a purple tie. Now you stood in front of him, beaming and holding out the tip jar like you had done to everyone else. He put in a few bucks, and after you asked him if he enjoyed the show, he spoke to you in a gravelly voice.

“Yeah. You were amazing. I haven’t heard a voice like that in… a long time.”

He studied you, his eyes almost amused as he narrowed them at you, cocking his head a bit.

“Say, what’s your name?”