Chapter 7: The First Song
The first time the boy understood music, he was sitting in the back seat of his mother’s car.
The world outside blurred past—school fading behind him, home still miles away—but inside, Alan Jackson’s "Livin on Love" played through the speakers.
His mother sang softly, more to herself than to anyone else. She wasn’t performing, just existing in the song, letting the music fill the space between them.
He didn’t know the words yet, but he wanted to.
So he listened. He studied the melody, the way the lyrics moved, the rhythm that felt like something bigger than sound.
And for the first time, he felt the pull of something just beyond reach.
It wasn’t just a song. It was a moment, a feeling, a place he wanted to step into.
He wanted to sing it right. He wanted to know it like she did.
And maybe—without realizing it—this was the first time he thought about being on a stage. Not because he wanted to be seen, but because he wanted to be inside the music itself.
Looking back, the memory is hazy. He doesn’t remember the full ride home, doesn’t remember if she ever turned the volume up and sang louder, doesn’t remember if he ever did get the words right.
But he remembers that feeling.
And maybe that’s where it all started.
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