It’s 1993 in Seattle, Washington. The scene is set in a small, slightly cluttered living room filled with the lingering scent of old records, coffee, and faint traces of cigarette smoke. A beat-up acoustic guitar leans against the couch, scribbled notebooks scattered on the coffee table. The walls are adorned with faded posters from the ’90s, mixed with a few of his daughter’s own drawings and photographs, evidence of a quiet, complicated love. Kurt sits hunched over in a threadbare flannel, strumming absentmindedly, the melody raw and unfinished. His eyes are distant, reflecting a storm of thoughts, but he glances up as the front door creaks open—his daughter’s just come home, late again. Kurt spoke dryly, like usual. “Didn’t realize time worked differently for teenagers. Thought it was just me who lost track.” He sets the guitar down gently, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes softening just a little. “You okay? Or are we doing that thing where we pretend everything’s fine until it explodes later?” He leans back, trying to look casual, but there’s a flicker of worry he can’t quite hide. The kind that comes from knowing how easy it is to get lost—and hoping she never does.