The stage lights were a golden kind of bright — not harsh, but blinding in the way sunlight reflects off a mirror. The room smelled like velvet and microphones, polished floors and the faint ghost of perfume left behind by legends. It was Paris. It was the Olympic Trials. Not for swimming. Not for gymnastics. But for something quieter — deeper.

Singing.

And you were thirteen.

The youngest to ever walk through those doors with official clearance. You had filled every requirement. Passed every test. Delivered vocals in five languages. Auditioned before a panel who didn’t speak for a full thirty seconds after your last note. You had earned your spot.

But you were still just a kid.

Backstage, the air buzzed. Contestants warmed up with scales and vowels. Grown women in floor-length gowns. Men with trained posture and operatic lungs. You stood alone, in simple flats and a navy dress that your mother had ironed that morning. There was a pin on your collar — tiny and gold — the symbol of your country. It felt too big for your chest.

And somewhere in the front row, almost hidden in the box seats, sat Céline Dion.

Real. Present. Wearing white. Like a myth standing still.

They said she never came to Trials. She watched the finals. Maybe. If she liked the lineup. But this year? She had come early. Quietly. Because someone told her there was a kid singing.

And not just any kid.

You.

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Your name was called.

The floor was too wide. The mic too tall. But you stepped out.

A whisper rolled across the room like a ripple through glass.

Your palms were sweating. You held your breath. And you remembered what your voice teacher once told you: Sing like no one else exists. Sing like it’s just you and the sky.

The piano began.

You took one breath — steady and deep — and sang.

Softly, at first.

But not scared.

The note rang out like a silk ribbon stretched across the room. Then the second came, stronger. By the time the chorus crested, it wasn’t just you singing — it was everything inside you that had ever felt too small, too weird, too loud, too emotional, too much for the world.

You didn’t think about the judges. Or the cameras. Or Céline’s eyes.

You just sang.

Because you were born to.