CHAPTER 3

This Town

LONDON / DUBLIN

Funny how some things never change in this town.

The studio lights are soft and golden, a welcome contrast to the harsh brightness of backstage corridors. I sit on a stool with my guitar resting against my thigh, working through the final chords of a song I've been trying to finish for weeks.

Another song for you, Evie.

I let the last note fade into the room.

Silence follows.

It always does.

Claire sits cross-legged on the floor near my feet, her sketchbook spread across her lap. The tip of her tongue pokes out between her lips as she concentrates, a habit she inherited from her mother. Her drawings cover nearly every page in a riot of colors and shapes that make perfect sense to her and absolutely none to me.

I wouldn't change a thing.

“I liked that last chorus,” she says without looking up.

A smile finds its way onto my face. “You say that about all of them.”

“Because they're all good.”

“Even the ones I haven't finished?”

She finally looks up, blue eyes bright with certainty.

“Especially those.”

I laugh quietly. It's a small sound, but lately even the smallest things have felt like achievements.

For six years, music has been the one place where I can put the things I cannot say aloud. Every melody carries a memory. Every unfinished verse leads me back to the same person.

Evie.

My wife. Claire's mother. The woman whose absence turned an entire city into a collection of places I no longer wanted to visit.

I've spent years writing songs I never intended anyone else to hear. Friends have encouraged me to return to the stage, to play small venues, to let music become part of my life again instead of a reminder of everything I've lost.

Perhaps they're right.

Perhaps it's time to stop treating every song like a farewell.

“Dad?”

Claire's voice draws me back.

“Hmm?”

“Are you going to sing again?”

I look down at her.

“What makes you ask that?”

She shrugs, suddenly fascinated by a blue pencil.

“Uncle Zion says you should. Uncle Luka says you're being stubborn.”

“Those two have far too much free time.”

She giggles.

“But I think you should.”

There is no pressure in her voice. No demand that I become the man I used to be. Just a little girl asking her father to do something that once made him happy.

I set the guitar aside and move down from the stool, sitting beside her on the floor.

“You know, your mother used to say that I was at my most difficult when I thought I was protecting someone.”

Claire tilts her head.

“Was she right?”

“Annoyingly often.”

“Then maybe you should listen to Uncle Zion.”

I stare at her.

She stares back.

And then we both burst out laughing.

For a few seconds, the past loosens its grip. The room feels warm. The future doesn't seem quite so impossible.

The studio door opens before I can answer her.

Luka strides inside, carrying two cans of beer and wearing the expression of a man who has already decided how this conversation will end.

“Look at that,” he announces. “The retired rock star has finally remembered where he left his guitar.”

Claire springs to her feet.

“Uncle Luka!”

He catches her in a hug, lifting her off the ground as she laughs.

“There she is. My favorite person in this entire house.”

“I'm your only favorite person?”

“Don't tell your father, but yes.”

“I'm standing right here,” I point out.

Luka sets her down and tosses one of the cans toward me. I catch it automatically but leave it unopened on the table.

He notices.

His smile fades a little.

“You've been sitting in this studio for months, Declan. Writing songs no one hears and convincing yourself that's enough.”

I lean back against the stool.

“It's been enough for me.”

“Has it?”

The question lands harder than it should.

Luka looks around the room—the instruments, the sound equipment, the notebooks filled with lyrics. Then he looks at me.

“You don't have to return to the stage tomorrow. You don't even have to decide this week. But don't tell yourself you've stopped caring about music when you spend every spare hour here.”

I glance at the guitar.

He isn't wrong.

That doesn't mean I intend to admit it.

“I'm considering a few small shows,” I say at last. “Nothing major. A couple of venues nearby.”

Luka's grin returns immediately.

“I knew you wouldn't be able to resist forever.”

“Don't make me reconsider.”

“Too late. I've already started imagining the comeback tour.”

Claire claps her hands.

“Can I come?”

“Absolutely,” I tell her.

Her smile brightens the entire room.

“And can I sit where I can see you?”

“Front row.”

“Promise?”

I hold out my little finger. She hooks hers around it with solemn determination.

“Promise.”

For her, I would keep every promise I could.

Luka settles onto the sofa, looking far too pleased with himself.

“So, are we calling this the official return of Declan Callahan?”

“Don't announce anything.”

“Of course not.”

He pulls out his phone.

“Luka.”

“I'm only checking the calendar.”

“Luka.”

“Fine. I'll wait until you say yes.”

Before I can reply, the door opens again.

Zion walks in without knocking, his expression more serious than Luka's.

“We need to talk.”

The change in his tone makes me straighten.

“About what?”

He glances at Claire, then at the guitar beside me.

“Something we discussed in London. And something you need to consider before you make any decisions about the future.”

Luka's amusement disappears.

I look between my brothers.

“What happened?”

Zion takes a breath.

“Nothing has happened yet. That's the problem. We don't know what comes next, and we can't keep pretending that waiting will solve everything.”

I understand what he means without asking him to explain.

The family. The business. The responsibilities I've kept at arm's length while trying to survive the years without Evie.

And the possibility that I might finally have to stop surviving and start living again.

Claire gathers her sketchbook and studies us with a thoughtful expression.

“Are you talking about work?”

“Something like that,” I tell her.

She nods as though she understands, then turns toward the door.

“I'll wait in the living room. You can come find me when you're finished.”

I watch her leave.

She has learned too early how to recognize when adults are hiding something from her.

I hate that.

When the door closes, Zion takes the chair opposite me.

“We've been giving you time,” he says. “We know why you needed it. But you can't spend the rest of your life standing still.”

My fingers curl around the edge of the stool.

“And what exactly do you suggest I do?”

“Start with the music,” Luka answers. “You already want to. Admit it, make a plan, and take the first step.”

“And the rest?”

Zion's expression softens.

“The rest can wait until you're ready to face it.”

I look at the guitar again.

For years, I have believed that moving forward would mean leaving Evie behind. That if I returned to the stage, wrote a song that wasn't about her, or found a reason to smile that didn't hurt afterward, I would somehow be betraying the life we built together.

But perhaps remembering someone and living without them aren't mutually exclusive.

Perhaps I can carry her with me without allowing grief to make every decision.

I pick up the guitar.

Luka's eyebrows rise.

“Is that a yes?”

“It's a song,” I tell him. “Don't make it a headline.”

He raises both hands in surrender.

Zion smiles faintly.

I settle the instrument against my chest and begin to play.

The first notes are hesitant. My fingers stumble over a chord I once knew by heart. I stop, adjust my hand, and try again.

This time, the melody holds.

Claire appears in the doorway a moment later, drawn by the sound. She doesn't interrupt. She simply sits beside the door with her sketchbook in her lap and listens.

When I finish, she smiles.

“That one's different.”

I look at her.

“Different how?”

She considers the question carefully.

“It still sounds sad. But it doesn't sound like you're saying goodbye.”

For a long moment, I cannot speak.

Then I nod.

“No,” I say quietly. “I suppose it doesn't.”

Outside the studio, the city carries on as it always has. Cars move through the streets, lights flicker in distant windows, and people continue living lives that have nothing to do with mine.

For the first time in six years, I wonder whether I might be able to join them.

Not because I've forgotten Evie.

Not because the pain has disappeared.

But because Claire deserves a father who can look toward tomorrow without feeling guilty for leaving yesterday behind.

I pick up the guitar again.

“Want to hear another one, princess?”

She settles comfortably on the floor.

“Always, Dad.”

And this time, when I begin to play, I let the music take me somewhere new.