[EMY]
By Day Four, my headache had evolved into a full orchestra.
The AC hummed like an old man trying to meditate, the mic refused to cooperate, and Angel looked like she might snap in half if I poked her.
"Relax," I said, handing her a cup of ginger tea like it was holy water. "Drink. It'll calm your nerves, soothe your throat, and if you spill it, this room will finally smell decent."
She smiled nervously. "I'm trying. Every time I think I've got it, my voice shakes."
"Then let it shake," I said. "You don't fight nerves — you dance with them."
Mr. Park peeked from the window. "Ready?"
Angel nodded. The red light blinked on.
Her voice came out — fragile, trembling — but I didn't stop her this time. I let her sing through it.
Through the cracks, the fear, the air in her lungs. And halfway through, something clicked. Her voice steadied.
By the bridge, it wasn't shaking anymore. It was alive.
