The venue isn’t huge — one of those cozy places where the lights are warm and the ceiling feels low, like the music has nowhere to go except straight into your chest. You’re in the front row, hands clasped around your phone, heart racing so fast you swear Charlie can hear it over the amps. And then he comes out. Charlie Walker, guitar slung over his shoulder, hair slightly messy, smile nervous but genuine. He adjusts the mic, clears his throat. “Uh—hey,” he says, voice soft but steady. “Thanks for coming out tonight. This… this means more than you know.”