Christopher John stood barefoot on the worn planks of the Santa Monica Promenade, his guitar slung low like a second skin. The sunset cast a molten gold hue across the horizon, the Pacific waves murmuring in the background. Tourists strolled by, their chatter and laughter blending with the street performers’ melodies. Yet Christopher’s song cut through the noise, raw and haunting, pulling people closer like moths to a flame.
“Six feet deep, I’m crawling out, From the whispers of doubt, Chains on my soul, I’ll break ‘em free, Gotta find who I’m meant to be.”
His voice was whiskey and gravel, each note soaked in longing. Some paused to listen, their faces softening, while others tossed coins or crumpled bills into his open guitar case. For Christopher, it wasn’t about the money. It was about the connection—the way music could bridge the vast chasms between strangers.
The voices in his head never stopped. They whispered doubts during the quiet moments and screamed failures during the loud ones. But when he played, they faded into the chords and lyrics, leaving only the longing in his heart. It was that longing that drove him—a relentless ache to find where he belonged, to escape the feeling of being six feet under even while standing in the sunlight.
A man in a faded denim jacket stopped, his face weathered and thoughtful. He leaned against a lamppost, watching Christopher with an intensity that made him shift under the scrutiny. Christopher finished his song, letting the final note hang in the air like a prayer. A smattering of applause followed, and he gave a small, shy nod of gratitude.
The man stepped forward, dropping a twenty into the case. “You’ve got somethin’ there, kid,” he said, his voice gruff but kind. “Raw as hell, but real. Don’t lose that.”
Christopher looked up, surprised. “Thanks. I… I just sing what’s in my head.”
“Well, don’t let it stay there too long,” the man replied with a wink. “World needs to hear it. You ever thought about Nashville?”
Nashville. The word hit him like a tuning fork, vibrating through his chest. It wasn’t the first time someone had mentioned it, but coming from this stranger, it felt like a challenge—a dare to take the leap.
“I think about it every day,” Christopher admitted. “But thinking doesn’t get you there.”
The man nodded knowingly. “You’re right about that. Thinking doesn’t buy gas or a bus ticket. But sometimes, all it takes is one step to get the ball rolling.” He pulled a business card from his jacket and handed it to Christopher. “Name’s Hank. If you’re serious about making it, call me. Got some folks back east who’d like what you’re selling.”
Christopher stared at the card, his fingers trembling. This wasn’t the first time someone had offered help, but it was the first time it felt real. He looked up to thank Hank, but the man was already walking away, blending into the crowd like a ghost.
“Nashville,” Christopher murmured, folding the card into his pocket. The voices in his head whispered again, but this time, they sounded a lot like hope.
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