The venue reeked of spilled beer and cigarette ghosts. A middle-aged retired rocker stood tall amidst sea of bobbing heads and bad tattoos and focused on the stage. This was her night. Her show. Her time.

As the speakers blasted and lights shot through the fog, she felt his story move through her. It stroked her hair with the first chord. It held her heart in the chorus. And then it wrapped itself so tightly around her soul that she felt tears running from the corners of her eyes.

When he asked how the city was doing that night, she let out a primal scream. Her shell had begun to crack. And, this time, she was ready to help it shatter.



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