I find the note again weeks later, where I tucked it without thinking.In my wallet.Between a crumpled receipt from an airport café and a photo strip of our daughter making progressively more ridiculous faces in a booth.I’m standing in a greenroom in some other city, some other arena, half in costume, half in my own head. Mia is yelling at someone about a missing mic pack. Dante is on a call near the window, his voice low, words like “compliance” and “partnership” threading through the air.My fingers brush the edge of the folded paper.For a heartbeat, I’m back in that ugly hotel room, an old heater rattling, and new ink drying. Dante’s shoulder pressed against mine as we leaned against the cheap headboard and wrote over the past.Sing for the world, little star. Forget me. Sing for the world. Come home to me.Both truths, laid back‑to‑back.I unfolded it.The original line faces me first, his handwriting a little more careful than it was that first night.Sing for the world, lit
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