One evening, as the sun painted the sky with shades of orange and pink, Avery handed me a notebook and a pen. "Write down what you're feeling," she said. "Let the music come from there."
I stared at the blank pages, the weight of my thoughts pressing down on me. But as I began to write, the words flowed easily, turning into a song that seemed to write itself. It was about love, about the strength of a mother's heart, about the beauty of new beginnings. It was raw and unfiltered, a piece of my soul laid bare.
When I strummed the final chord, the room was silent. Avery looked at me with a mix of awe and pride, and Joe nodded solemnly. "That," he said, "is a masterpiece."
And in that moment, I felt alive again, connected to something greater than the four walls of my office. The music had
