When Adalaide was six years old she used to sit in her grandmother's living room and pluck out melodies on her old beat up, upright piano that was always just a bit out of tune. She couldn't read sheet music yet, nor did she know about chords or melodies or anything actually related to playing a piano. She did learn how to play Mary Had a Little Lamb by herself and her grandmother taught her chopsticks and she thought that was the best thing in the world. 

When she was 13 years old, she'd sit on the corner of the street with her little lap keyboard that she bought for 15 dollars and a peek down her shirt from Freddy down the street. She learned a few more melodies and sang along to get people to put money in the glass jar she sat in front of her. On a good day, she could make enough food so they could eat for a few more days, and maybe put some money away for new shoes that she desperately needed but likely would never get. 

When she was 17, she would sit in a recording studio with her mom, helping flesh out new songs for people who would never remember their names. Credits on songs that would be popular for one summer before everyone moved onto something bigger and better. It would be there that she recorded her first song, someone else's fingers on the piano and her voice edited until it was unrecognizable to her ears. Her manager assured her that's just how it worked. She was lured away by the 0's in her bank account. 

When she was 23...she couldn't remember that year. Or the year after that one. They say she spent her fortune on drugs and parties and then more drugs. Her mother died, and then her brother. She didn't remember that either. 


At 29 Adalaide stood near a piano in some twisted corner of Endeavor Records. Somewhere that would give her a modicum of privacy before the rest of the artists filtered in. Adalaide wouldn't sing again, not for people, not for awhile. The music was still a part of her though, it was still something that ran through her blood and spilled out of her mouth and through the pads of her fingers. She suspected that would never go away, no matter what she did. 

Adalaide took a few steps towards the piano, her heels clicking a broken staccato on the ground as she hesitated. It was a beautiful piano, a grand piano with real ivories. Adalaide wasn't sure why it was here, it had to be worth a pretty penny. Adalaide shouldn't touch it, she who seemed to take everything beautiful around her and mangle it into something unrecognizable. She did anyways, sitting down on the bench and resting her fingers lightly on the keys. The first chord that came out of the piano in G minor, and then she kept playing. Adalaide played until the words should be coming out of her mouth. Words that she knew, but that she couldn't wrap her tongue around. Not yet, maybe not ever. She pulled her fingers away from the keys, resisting the urge to try again. She closed the cover on the keys and stood up. Her phone pinged quietly from the corner of the room where she had dropped her purse. Adalaide sighed, turning away from the piano and to the rest of her life. She quieted the phone and dug the pill bottle out of her purse. She took the single pill, and tried not to wish it was something a little more interesting than an antidepressant.

Adalaide left the room as she had found it, the light turned off and the door only open a sliver. She made her way back towards the central part of the studio, and she heard the light strumming of a guitar. She followed her ears, before finding herself leaning against the door jam watching Mitch. She closed her eyes, before the guitar faded into nothing. Adalaide took a deep breath, smiling at Mitch if he turned around to face her.

"Are you ready?" Adalaide asked him, poking her head out to see if anyone was heading this way yet. She could hear the sounds of people entering the studio, milling about and exploring. She ignored every impulse to bolt and pasted a smile on her face for anyone who came across her path. It was a new era, and she was ready for it.