For days after Marcus left, Maya kept the business card tucked inside her notebook. Every time she saw it, she felt a strange mix of excitement and fear—fear of stepping back into the world she'd just run from, excitement that maybe, this time, it could be different.
One evening, she sat on the porch with her guitar, a half-finished verse on the page in front of her. The words had been stubborn for weeks, but now they began to loosen. Images tumbled out—the desert wind on her face, the way headlights looked on an empty highway, the weight of a decision that changes you forever.
By midnight, she had a complete song. It wasn't polished, but it was raw in the best way, every line pulled from her own bones. She called it Home to Myself.
The next morning, she sent a rough recording to Marcus. Within an hour, he called back.
"This is it," he said. "This is the song you lead with. No filters, no overproduction. Just you and a guitar."
They spent the next week recording in a small studio two towns over. No makeup team, no scripted press. Just Marcus behind the console, nodding as Maya played. She sang it once, and when the last chord faded, the room felt so full it was almost heavy.
"This isn't just a song," Marcus said quietly. "It's your flag in the ground."
When the track went online, it spread differently than Fire in the Sky had. It wasn't a flashy viral storm—it was a slow burn. Listeners shared it because it felt like something they'd been needing without realizing it. Comments poured in: This is the Maya I remember.This one feels like the truth.
For the first time in her career, Maya didn't feel like she was chasing the crowd. She was leading herself.