The next morning, Maya was back at the diner, refilling mugs and balancing plates of pancakes with muscle memory. She barely noticed Leo when he slid into a booth near the window—until she saw his camera resting on the table like a silent witness.
"You're back," she said, setting down his coffee.
"Had to show you something," he replied, tapping the camera screen. A grainy video played—her from last night, eyes half-closed, strumming the guitar like the world had disappeared. She felt oddly exposed, watching herself from the outside.
"It's… fine," she said.
"It's more than fine," Leo countered. "I uploaded it this morning. Just to see. People are already reacting."
"Reacting?"
He slid his phone across the table. There it was—her face on a social media feed she barely used, the video tagged #VoiceOfTheDesert. Hundreds of likes. Dozens of comments.
Who is she?
This voice feels like summer nights.
Someone sign her already.
A slow, nervous warmth crept up her neck. "It's probably just a fluke," she muttered, but her hands were shaking as she poured him more coffee.
By evening, the numbers had doubled. People she didn't know were sharing her song, tagging their friends, demanding more. Her phone buzzed so much she turned it off just to think.
At her usual sidewalk spot, a larger crowd gathered. Some filmed, some just listened. A couple sang along to the chorus she'd written only a week ago. The attention was strange—like stepping into sunlight after years in the shade.
When she finished her last song, an older man in a tailored jacket approached. "Maya Sanchez?"
"Yes?"
"I'm Evan Black," he said smoothly, handing her a business card that smelled faintly of cologne and ambition. "I think you have something the world needs to hear."
She stared at the card, the letters gleaming under the streetlight. For the first time, the dream didn't feel like a distant star—it felt close enough to touch.