Three years ago, I was working long hours at a busy restaurant called M’s Grill—a trendy spot trying to be something it wasn’t. The décor was bold, the music always loud, and the energy nonstop. I was just one of many servers doing my best to get by.
My name is Kleo, and at the time, I was juggling double shifts, caring for my father who was managing early-onset Parkinson’s, and still grieving the loss of my mother. I had once dreamed of becoming a music teacher—I studied music education in college—but life had taken a different path. With medical bills and rent stacking up, I put those dreams on hold to take care of what mattered most: my family.
Working at M’s Grill wasn’t glamorous, but it helped me keep the lights on and support my dad. I found moments of joy in the small things: a kind customer’s smile, quiet evenings watching old shows with my father, and those rare moments when my paycheck covered everything I needed. But music? That felt like a memory.
Then, one night, everything changed.
Our manager announced that a live music night was happening, featuring a performer named Liam—an old friend of his. When Liam arrived, he had the look of someone who had once been on stage a lot: confident, flashy, and ready to entertain. But when the music started, it became clear that something wasn’t quite right. The performance didn’t go as expected, and the crowd began to lose interest.
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