The bass note hums so deep that Bridget feels it in her teeth.

She's standing in the doorway of her dad's home studio, a cramped room in the basement that smells like old coffee and guitar polish. Her older brother Loren leans against the wall behind her, tapping his sneaker against the floor. Their dad—Marcus Cole, the Marcus Cole, three-time Gold Record winner and international superstar—sits hunched over an acoustic guitar, playing the same two chords over and over.

"Dad," Bridget whispers. "It's almost midnight."

He doesn't hear her. He never hears anything when he's chasing a melody.

Bridget believes something about herself that isn't true. She believes she's just a spectator—someone who watches talented people do extraordinary things but could never contribute anything meaningful herself. Her dad writes songs that make millions of people cry. Loren, who is eleven, already plays drums well enough to sit in during rehearsals. And Bridget? She's nine. She listens. That's it.

"Come on," Loren says, pulling her sleeve. "He'll be at this all night. Album's due in four months."

But Bridget doesn't move. Because something shifts in her dad's playing. The chords change. A new melody blooms—fragile, beautiful, like a baby bird testing its wings. Marcus grabs a pencil and scribbles furiously on a napkin.

"That," he mutters. "That's the one."

***

The next morning, Bridget finds Marcus at the kitchen table surrounded by crumpled napkins. Each one has words scratched across it in his terrible handwriting. This is the first stage: songwriting. And it looks, frankly, like a mess.

"Okay, crew," Marcus announces, sliding his sunglasses onto his forehead. "This album is going to be different. I want you two with me through every single step. Writing, recording, mixing, artwork, promotion—the whole journey. Deal?"

"Deal!" Loren shouts, punching the air.

Bridget nods quietly.