Julian tilts his head, eyes tracing the edges of the porch like he's mapping it in his mind. He nods slowly, testing whether he's allowed to believe it.
"You ever get scared it won't come back?" he asks, voice low, almost swallowed by the evening air. "The feeling. That… thing you're chasing?"
Seven years ago, that question would've cracked me open.
Tonight, it just lands. Calm. Settled.
"No," I say. "It always comes back. When you stop forcing it to stay."
He looks down at the floorboards, shuffling his feet. "I just… I don't wanna waste what I've got. You know?"
His hands curl into his pockets, knuckles white. The words are small, but I hear all of it—the fear, the hunger, the kid who grew up too fast and doesn't trust the world to keep its promises.
I study him for a moment, letting him feel seen.
"You won't."
A soft laugh slips out of him, breathless, like he's testing the possibility. "You have a lot of faith in me."
"Yeah, Julian. I do." I shrug like it's no big thing, but I know it is. "You just need to remember why you started. Hold the vision. The rest will follow."
He runs a hand through his hair—messy and stubborn, the way all twenty-one-year-olds do when they're caught between panic and possibility.
"Why do you do it? Music… all this?" He gestures toward the studio like it's some monument he can't fully grasp yet.
"To feel something," I say, letting my gaze drift across thestudio, the cables, the loft, the soft glow of lights. "Not to prove something."
The words land. His shoulders loosen. His chest eases like he's finally letting gravity do its work.
"Thanks, Nate," he says quietly. Not a joke, not an apology—just gratitude.
He steps toward the door, pauses, looks back.
"I'll… remember that." He smiles, small, almost shy, and disappears into the studio. The door swings closed softly behind him.
I stay where I am, letting the night settle.
I rest a hand on the railing, feeling the grain, the warmth, the steadiness beneath my fingertips.
It's nights like this I remember why I built Meridian. Not for me. Not for fame. Not for anything the world could see.
But for moments like this. For them.
For the kids who've been handed too much or too little. For the music that needs a home. For the feeling of watching someone trust themselves enough to let the song find them.
I exhale. Long. Quiet. The kind that pulls tension out of your bones without a word.
I should feel full. Proud. Settled.
And I do.
Mostly.
But there's that low hum again. That quiet ache that isn't sharp, isn't loud. Just… under everything. I carry it like a shadow stitched to my ribs.
I don't need to name it. I just feel it, like weather in your bones you can't explain.
The stars hang over Eden—careful, patient, distant yet present.
