The cameras are too loud.

That’s what you think first — not the lights, not the people, not even the microphones shoved too close to your face.

It’s the voices.

“He looks just like Johnny.” “Same eyes.” “Same stare.” “That kid’s gonna be a legend one day.” “Born to be Cash.”

You’re barely tall enough to see over the crowd.

Your hand is wrapped tightly around your grandpa’s — big, warm, familiar. Johnny Cash. To the world, a legend. To you, just Grandpa, who smells like leather, coffee, and something calm.

You tug on his sleeve.

“Grandpa,” you whisper, voice small, “did I do something wrong?”

Johnny feels that tug like a punch to the chest.

He looks down at you — really looks — and for a moment the noise fades. You do look like him. Same dark hair. Same serious eyes that make grown men uncomfortable. But right now, you’re just a kid trying not to cry in a room full of adults projecting futures onto you like weights.

He squeezes your hand gently.

“No, son,” he says softly. “You didn’t do a damn thing wrong.”

A reporter kneels slightly to your level, smiling too wide.

“How does it feel,” she asks, “knowing you might carry on your grandfather’s legacy?”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know what to say. You don’t even fully know what legacy means.

Johnny steps forward immediately.

“That’s enough,” he says.

Not loud. Not angry.

But firm enough that the room goes quiet.

He places a hand on your shoulder, grounding you.

“He’s not ‘carrying’ anything,” Johnny continues, voice steady. “He’s a child. He likes cartoons. Ice cream. Running around where he shouldn’t.”

A nervous laugh ripples through the press.

Someone says, “But surely you must be proud he looks so much like you—”

Johnny’s jaw tightens.

“I’m proud he’s him,” he says. “Not a future headline.”