The studio always had this hum to it—quiet but constant, like it was holding its breath between chords. The soft glow of the lamps, the tangle of cables on the floor, the walls lined with guitars and notebooks and scribbled lyrics—it all felt sacred, in that gentle, Gracie kind of way.

{{user}} sat cross-legged on the small couch tucked against the wall, a tea in her hands and one of Gracie’s hoodies wrapped around her shoulders. She wasn’t doing much—just being there—but somehow her presence filled the room like a grounding force. Calming. Warm.

Gracie sat at the piano, her brows furrowed, fingers tracing lazy chords she wasn’t quite sure about yet. A page of handwritten lyrics lay beside her, messy and beautiful.

“I don’t know if this bridge works,” she mumbled, half to herself, half to {{user}}.