The Rogue Luna

Chapter 12 – A Song for the Hungry

Aria's Pov

I didn’t know if Jonas meant it.

People say things in passing all the time. Promises are easy to break. I had learned that the hard way—pack promises, Lucian’s promises, and even my own belief that I’d always have a home.

So when I woke up the next morning, the first thought that crossed my mind was simple: what if he changes his mind?

I had eaten last night, yes, but what if it was a one-time kindness? What if he laughed in my face when I go back? Or worse, what if he told me not to return at all? The thought of going back to the cold streets made my chest tighten.

But hunger didn’t give me the choice to hesitate. By the time the sun dipped below the rooftops, I found myself standing in front of the tavern again, holding my trumpet and its case.

The light spilling from the doorway was the same warm glow as yesterday. Laughter, shouting, and the clink of mugs—it was all familiar now, yet still intimidating. My hands were clammy as I pushed the door open.

Inside, the tavern looked just as it had before: crowded tables, the smell of smoke and food hanging heavy in the air, people with flushed cheeks and loud voices. A few faces turned toward me, curious but not hostile. I swallowed, walked in, and tried not to look like I was about to bolt.

Jonas was behind the counter, wiping mugs with that same worn rag. He noticed me immediately. His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was judging if I’d actually return. Then he gave a small nod.

“You came back,” he said.

“You said I could,” I answered, trying to keep my voice steady.

He leaned an elbow on the counter. “Still want to play?”

“Yes.”

Something flickered in his eyes, and for the first time, the corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, though I wouldn’t call it that. “Go on, then. Corner’s open.”

My chest loosened just enough for me to breathe again. I walked over to the small space near the wall where I had stood yesterday. This time, I didn’t fumble as much with the case. I took out the trumpet, wiped the mouthpiece with my sleeve, and set my feet steady on the floor.

The first notes wavered, but I pushed through. My lips found the rhythm, the sound steadied, and soon it wasn’t shaky—it was alive. I let the music carry me, sharper than last night, less like begging for a chance and more like fighting to prove I deserved it.

The conversations around me softened. Some heads turned. A few patrons shifted in their chairs, listening more closely.

I closed my eyes, just for a moment. The melody wasn’t only sorrowful this time. It was hunger, determination, and the stubbornness that would not be pushed out of this world, no matter how unwelcome I felt.

When I finished the first piece, the silence was thicker than before. Then a slow clap started, followed by a few more. Coins hit the wooden floor near my feet. I bent quickly, picking them up, embarrassed but grateful.

Jonas’s voice cut through the noise. “Another.”

I hesitated, then lifted the trumpet again.

The second song was softer and gentler. It wasn’t just pain—it was longing, the ache of being far from home, of missing something you couldn’t name. The kind of ache that never quite went away. By the time I lowered the trumpet again, some people were smiling faintly, others staring at me like they weren’t sure what had just happened.

“Not bad, girl,” Jonas muttered when I finally sat down.

I stayed through the night, playing between conversations and the raucous laughter of men already deep in their ale. Every time I lifted the trumpet, the tavern shifted—voices lowered, mugs paused, and eyes turned.

By closing, Jonas handed me a bowl of stew, thick and hot, and nodded toward the coins I’d collected. “Keep ’em. You earned that.”

My throat tightened. “So I can… keep coming back?”

“You play, you eat. Simple deal.” He shrugged. “The crowd likes you. Makes ’em drink more, too. Works out for both of us.”

It was such a plain answer, but to me it felt like a lifeline.

The next nights blurred together, but each one felt steadier than the last. I grew less nervous walking into the tavern. Jonas didn’t treat me kindly exactly, but he kept his word, and that mattered more than kindness. He gave me space, food, and a chance.

Patrons began to notice me, too. Some only glanced up, uninterested, but others stayed longer than they meant to, listening with their mugs halfway to their mouths. A few tossed bigger coins into my case, and once, a man patted my shoulder and told me, “That’s the best damn sound I’ve heard in years.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I just nodded, but inside, something swelled—something I hadn’t felt since before everything fell apart.

Respect.

It wasn’t much, not compared to the life I’d lost, but it was something. Enough to remind me I was still here. Still surviving.

And then the whispers began.

It was a late night, and the tavern was packed tighter than usual. Jonas had given me a nod to start early, and I had been playing longer than usual, letting the music carry through the thick air. When I lowered the trumpet, sweat beading my forehead, I heard it: two men at the table nearest the corner.

“Strange, isn’t it?” one murmured, rubbing his shoulder. “When she plays, my aches don’t feel as bad. Like the sound’s… cleaning me out.”

“Thought it was just me,” the other said with a laugh. “But you’re right. Haven’t felt this light in months.”

They clinked mugs, not realizing I’d heard.

I froze. My chest tightened. It was only music. That was all. Music couldn’t heal. Could it?

I tried to brush it off, but the more I listened, the more I noticed. Others whispered similar things. Some swore they slept better after hearing me. Others claimed their moods lifted, and their worries felt less heavy.

The old woman’s voice echoed in my head: You carry a gift beyond your understanding.

I packed up quickly that night, my hands trembling as I tucked the trumpet back into its case.

Later, lying on the thin mattress in my hotel, I stared at the ceiling, replaying their words. Could it be true? Was it just their imagination? Or was something inside me slipping into the music, something I didn’t control?

I didn’t have answers. Only questions.

And the more I thought about it, the less sleep I got.