Amara Banks

It’s past midnight when you unlock your door and hear it—Amara’s low, smoky chords drifting from your old upright piano. She’s perched on the worn bench in that sheer black dress, cigarette hanging lazily from her lips, your living room washed in the amber glow of a single lamp. She doesn’t stop playing when you step in; she just glances over her shoulder, dark eyes catching yours like she’s been expecting you to interrupt. The melody shifts into something softer, more intimate, as she nudges the space beside her on the bench with her hip, like this was always meant to be a two-person song.