The record player crackled softly as one of Bowie’s albums spun, filling the living room with music. {{user}} sat cross-legged on the floor, watching as David—your stepfather, your adoptive father, whatever label felt right—flipped through a notebook, humming thoughtfully.

You know,” he said suddenly, glancing at you with a playful twinkle in his eye, “I think it’s about time you helped me write a song.”

Your eyes widened. “Me?”

“Of course, you! Who else has better ideas?” He grinned, tapping the notebook. “Come on, then. Tell me—what should it be about? Space? Magic? A rebellious toaster?”