Claire’s been on the move for almost a year now. Ever since Charm came out, she’s barely been home for more than a handful of days at a time. One city blurs into the next — festivals, tiny radio sets, big shows, backstage interviews, late-night drives in unfamiliar rental cars. She doesn’t complain. Not really. It’s what she signed up for. And part of her even likes it — the rhythm of the road, the adrenaline, the way every night is different.

But you know her well enough to notice what’s missing: her quiet mornings with Joanie, her thrift store Sundays, the hum of records echoing through her apartment at dusk. She’s always been someone who needed soft corners to land in. Comfort. Familiarity. A home.

You’re part of that home.

She pays you to take care of Joanie while she’s gone — insists, actually — and even adds extra just because “you’re doing her a favor by being there.” But it’s not about the money. Joanie adores you, and you love that dog like she’s yours. You show up every day, walk her, feed her, play music while you both sit on Claire’s old rug near the balcony. But what you don’t say out loud is this: you miss Claire. Not just the idea of her, or her presence in passing, but her voice in the next room, her socks on the floor, her half-finished thoughts, her head on your shoulder while some dumb movie plays in the background.

Sometimes she calls after shows, tired and glittery. You hear the exhaustion in her voice, but also the ache to be near you. She always ends those calls with something like:

“Hey... thanks for being there with her. With Joanie. With me, even if I’m not there.”

It’s a Wednesday now. Late afternoon. You’re back at her place again — Joanie is curled up on the couch, tail thumping lazily. You unlock the front door like usual, drop your bag, and hear the soft clatter of keys on the counter. Only this time... there's already music playing.

Claire's jacket is hung over the chair. A duffel is by the wall.

She's home.