Chapter 2
Gavin
Four-thirty alarm, same as every festival morning. I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen, muscle memory guiding me through strong coffee and prep lists. Outside my cabin windows, Silver Ridge was still wrapped in pre-dawn darkness. The kind of quiet that made a man grateful for solitude.
I pulled on yesterday's flannel and started the truck, letting it warm while I loaded equipment. Without thinking, I reached for the CD wedged between the seats. Small Town Dreams by Sadie Reynolds. Three years old now, scratched from overuse, but still the soundtrack to my early morning sessions.
Three days later, I'd cleared out my locker and driven north until I found Silver Ridge.
Ironic that the woman herself had wandered into my stall last night looking like she'd forgotten every word she'd ever sung about finding peace.
The festival grounds buzzed with early morning energy.
I set up my prep station behind the main stage, close enough to borrow equipment but far enough from the chaos to think straight.
Lit the burners, started breaking down vegetables for today's specials—wild mushroom bisque, Grammy's Christmas stew, fresh bannock with maple butter.
As I worked, I caught myself listening for that sound from last night. The unconscious humming that had risen from her when she'd tasted something real. Hadn't heard food make someone feel in months, she'd said. What kind of life left someone that disconnected from basic pleasure?
The answer walked past my station an hour later.
I spotted her behind the main stage, studying equipment setup with focused intensity. Gone was last night's exhausted vulnerability, replaced by a performer's mask so complete it was watching a different person. Perky smile, bright eyes, every gesture calculated for maximum charm.
She was good at it. Had to be.
But I'd seen the real version of her was the one who'd hummed over mushroom bisque. This polished stranger felt like watching someone wear their own skin as costume.
The morning flew by in prep work, stocks simmering, dough rising, vegetables getting proper knife treatment. By noon, I was deep in the rhythm that kept me sane. Predictable, honest work.
"Excuse me?" A kid volunteer, maybe nineteen, looked panicked. "The headliner missed her meal break. Sound check ran long, and she's supposed to go on in twenty minutes, but she hasn't eaten since breakfast—"
"What does she usually eat before shows?"
Kid shrugged. "Honestly? I think she just forgets when she's nervous."
Nerves. That explained the mask, the careful performance of being fine. Without thinking too hard about why, I plated comfort food: yesterday's venison stew, warm dinner roll, maple butter that made everything taste like home. Added chamomile tea because her voice had sounded strained earlier.
"Tell her it's from Grammy's recipe collection. And eat it while it's hot."
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged onto the stage like she'd been plugged into a power source. The exhausted woman from last night was nowhere to be seen. This version commanded attention, every movement fluid and confident, voice carrying across the festival grounds with professional polish.
But I was close enough to see what the audience missed—the quick, grateful glance she sent toward my station before launching into her first song. Close enough to catch when her stage smile flickered into something genuine.
The set was flawless. Crowd singing along by the third song, completely under her spell.
Watching her work was like watching a master craftsman—every gesture purposeful, every pause calculated.
But when she sang the quiet songs requiring vulnerability instead of energy, I caught glimpses of last night's woman.
The careful mask would slip, and something real would shine through.
That's when she was most beautiful. When she forgot to perform and just was.
After her set, I found myself lingering near my station instead of diving back into prep. The crowd dispersed slowly, people still humming her melodies. I was wiping surfaces that didn't need cleaning just to appear busy when she appeared at my counter.
"Thank you," she said, gratitude real in her voice. "That stew might have saved my life."
"Just food." Feed people. Bring comfort. Make them remember they're human.
"It was more than that, but thank you." She shook her head, studying my face.
"Long tour?" I asked to change the subject.
"Feels like forever." She leaned against my counter, her carefully constructed energy flagging. "Sometimes I think I've been on stage so long I've forgotten how to be anywhere else."
I knew that feeling. Different stage, same performance. The kitchen world had its own masks, its own roles you played until you forgot who you were underneath.
"Been there," I said simply.
"What did you do before this?" she asked, gesturing at my setup.
"Cooked for people who cared more about being seen eating than actually tasting the food." The words came out more bitter than intended. "High-end, five star restaurant. All performance, no soul."
"And now?"
"Now I cook for people who hum when they eat."
That earned me a real smile. "I did that, didn't I?"
"You did." I found myself returning the smile. "First genuine sound I'd heard from you."
She was quiet for a moment, processing that. "I used to hum all the time. Didn't realize I'd stopped."
Your music helped me find my way out, I wanted to tell her. But that was too much truth for a festival afternoon. Instead, I said, "Want to see something?"
She tilted her head, curious.
"There's a spot up the mountain where you can see the comet without all the town lights. Good view of the valley too." The words came before I'd decided to invite her anywhere. "If you're not busy after the festival closes tonight."
"You're asking me on a date?" The question came with a smile that was part tease, part genuine surprise.
"I'm offering to show you something beautiful," I said, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck. "What you make of it is up to you."
She considered this, and I watched her make the decision to trust a stranger who'd fed her stew and seen through her stage persona.
"Okay," she said. "But only if you promise not to make me sing campfire songs."
"Deal. Meet me at the main gate around ten?"
"It's a date."
As she walked away, I caught myself humming.
Through the afternoon crowd, I watched her greet fans and sign autographs, every interaction polished and warm and slightly removed from who she really was.
But she'd said yes to seeing something beautiful.
And the way her eyes had heated when I'd mentioned her humming—that had been real.
That had been the woman who'd found something worth savoring in Grammy's soup.
Above us, invisible in the afternoon sky, the comet continued its ancient journey toward Christmas Eve, carrying wishes and cosmic dust in equal measure.
Local legend claimed it could see straight through to your heart, grant authentic desires to those brave enough to make them under its amber light.
I wasn't much for wishing on celestial bodies, but as I watched Sadie navigate her crowd of admirers, something in my chest whispered that maybe some things were worth the risk of hoping for.