A single strum.
The warm, warbling opening to that lullaby. The one Eleanor used to play when Leanne was small, her knees scraped from climbing trees she wasn’t supposed to, her eyes heavy with sleep and stubbornness. The melody drifted from the stage like smoke, curling around her bones, softening everything sharp inside.
She didn’t need to see her to know it was her mother.
Leanne whirled toward the stage, her breath catching. She shoved through the swaying, rain-slickened crowd, elbows brushing against drenched denim and fringe jackets. Mud squelched beneath her steps. Nora followed close behind, her fingers gripping the back of Leanne’s blouse to stay close.
And then—there she was. Eleanor Bell Strickland.
Her mother stood at center stage. The spotlight washed over her silver-streaked hair, held away from her face with a yellow bandanna, casting a soft halo around her head. She wore a pair of purple bell-bottoms, a matching purple top, and bright yellow boots. Her fingers, long, veined, a little trembly now with age, plucked the chords of her guitar. Her eyes were closed. Head tilted slightly. And her face—oh, her face—was a painting of every emotion Leanne had ever tried to bury.
The song wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t trying to impress. It justwas. A quiet, aching melody about growing older. About time slipping through your fingers. About waking up and not recognizing the world or the person in the mirror.
Soft and low, the song had been a nighttime ritual, always with the same words, as though Eleanor had been predicting the future. Until one day…it had stopped. And here they were.
Leanne’s knees wobbled. Her throat tightened. Tears—hot and quiet—ran down her cheeks, lost in the rivulets of rain.
Nora slipped her fingers into hers. And Leanne squeezed her daughter’s hand like it was a lifeline.
“She used to play this for me,” Leanne whispered. Her voice cracked in her throat, barely audible over the hum of the audience.
But Nora heard her. Somehow, she always did.
“Me too,” Nora whispered back. “I can’t believe I forgot.”
The two of them—mother and daughter—stood rooted in the middle of a field, dripping in rain, surrounded by strangers, and yet they were utterly, intimately alone in the best way.
The chorus came around again, and this time, the crowd joined in. One by one, voices rose around them, not loud or drunken but elated. As if they’d all grown up with that song too. As if Eleanor Bell had tucked all of them in at night.
Nora sang softly, and so did Leanne. Their voices shaking. Their shoulders pressing together. The lyrics clinging to their lips the way Leanne prayed her mother’s memories would stick to the recesses of her mind.
When the last note fell, Eleanor opened her eyes and smiled at Shep Moon like he’d just handed her the world on a platter. He turned to her, eyes crinkling, and lifted her hand toward the Georgia sky.
“The Dame of Rock and Roll, friends,” he shouted into the mic, his voice bursting with pride. “Ain’t nobody better.”
The crowd roared.
Then he turned back to Eleanor and launched into a bluesy, toe-tapping riff. Eleanor grinned, the curl of her lips taking years off her face. She jumped into the rhythm with a strum of her guitar, theirbodies moving in unison like they’d been doing it for years, not just a few weeks. As though Leanne’s mother had never hidden her guitar in the closet at all.
“This has been the talk of every festival,” Joe shouted over the music, his voice electric with awe. “This song’s not even on a record yet!”
The crowd surged like a wave, their voices rising in harmony with the chorus. Strangers clung to one another, arms thrown around shoulders, hips swaying in soggy denim and dripping fringe. Everyone knew the lyrics already as if the song had been living in their bones long before they ever heard it.
Eleanor and Shep danced around each other onstage, trading verses like secrets, their guitars slung low and gleaming under the stage lights. They leaned in close, eyes locked, strumming with a chemistry that didn’t need words. Behind them, the drummer lost himself in a wild, ecstatic rhythm while the bassist plucked like he was conjuring thunder. The entire band was alive, each musician a wire in a single current.
Leanne stood frozen, rain cascading off her cheeks, unsure if the wetness on her face was from the storm or something breaking open inside her.
Because this wasn’t just music. It was destiny on display.
And boy, did it hurt.
Not because the music was loud. Not because Leanne didn’t understand the lyrics. But because all of it combined was so right. This stage, this storm, this strange winding road—Eleanor Bell had belonged here all along. Someone had locked the door on her decades ago, only to open it now and watch her run headlong forward.
Leanne felt a quiet quake beneath her ribs. Her hand fluttered to her chest, trying to still a guilt that had just found its voice.
Was it me?she wondered.Was it Dad?
Had Eleanor traded a microphone for a mop? A tour bus forcarpool? Had she hung up her guitar to play house because someone had told her that was what a good woman did?
