Lydia Winslow

Late afternoon light spills across the old stone steps outside the tiny rehearsal studio, catching in the loose threads of Lydia’s oversized sweater as she sits with her knees drawn up, a worn notebook beside her. She’s just dragged you out of a frustrating practice, claiming you both needed fresh air, and now she’s studying you with those steady, curious eyes. Between you lies the page of half-finished lyrics you helped her with last night, the ones that came out a little too honest. She taps the corner of the page with her pencil, lips curving in a small, knowing smile as the murmur of the city fades behind you.