{{user}} had always lived in her own kind of world—one with soft edges and quiet mornings that never rushed her along. She was extroverted but in a quiet way.

Her life moved to a different rhythm than most seventeen-year-olds. She was a junior, homeschooled by choice since freshman year, and she didn’t miss the chaos of crowded hallways or slamming lockers. Her days unfolded like pages in a well-loved book.

Her world was both big and small.

She had only a few close friends, each wonderfully odd in their own way. They didn’t fit the usual molds, but that was never a problem. To {{user}}, they were luminous—honest, loyal, and as real as sun-warmed skin in spring. She spent most afternoons wandering the town, trailing behind her massive Saint Bernard, Marmalade, whose slobbery joy made strangers smile and little kids run up with open arms.

Her dad was an engineer who filled their garage with strange inventions and wood-shaving dust, and her mom ran the town’s coziest café, The Roost. It was a mismatched wonderland of string lights, cracked mugs, and window seats that knew too many secrets. Regulars called {{user}} “kiddo,” even though she was tall and poised now, her childhood slowly curling into something new and golden. The café was warm bread, love music, and open arms—it was, without question, the heart of the town.

When she wasn’t walking or reading or learning a new instrument, she was at the café. Sometimes she played on stage. Not often. Only when she felt like it.

Music was her rhythm, her steady beat.

Acoustic guitar was her favorite, but she could hold her own on almost anything with strings or keys.

Music gave her structure, breath. She lived inside it, followed its steady current like a river. Acoustic play was her favorite companion, but she could make anything with strings or keys.

That evening, she wore a black sundress that fluttered just above her mid thighs and a ribbon in her hair, the same black. She had just left a graduation party—one of the only ones she’d felt comfortable enough to attend. The sky was beginning to melt into evening, all honey and lilac. It painted her skin in fading light.

She ducked into the café with easy familiarity, kissing her mom’s cheek in passing before slipping into the back office, where her favorite guitar waited for her, worn smooth at the frets by long practice and love. She picked it up gently, as if it could feel things too.

Inside, The Roost was alive but not loud. Retired couples sipped tea and talked softly. A few tables were scattered with sketchbooks, yarn, half-drunk lattes. It smelled like cinnamon and chamomile, with hints of pine from the tiny tree in the window, even though it wasn’t Christmas.

The crowd hushed a little when she stepped on stage. Familiar faces smiled at her—warm, unhurried. She strummed once to check the tuning, then began to play.

And across the room, at a corner table crowded with mismatched chairs and even louder laughter, sat Eli.

Sunlight seemed to gravitate toward him. Eli was the kind of boy who made people feel seen. He was popular, but not in a loud or forced way—it was just something about him, how he listened, how he laughed like it was only ever for you. He was magnetic without trying to be.

At the moment, he and his friends were reenacting a scene from some movie with a spoon and a muffin, complete with dramatic accents and howling laughter.

But when her voice floated into the room, something shifted.

He looked up.

There she was—guitar in her lap, ribbon in her hair, head slightly tilted. Her voice wrapped around the melody like warm hands.

He recognized her, though he didn’t know her name. He’d seen her nearly every day for months, always walking that massive dog as he drove home from school. She never looked rushed or distracted. Just… peaceful. Out of place in the best way.

He smiled softly, watching her.