One Thing's Still True

The Driftwood Tent looked as if it had been assembled out of whatever the
wind hadn’t blown away. Canvas patched with tarpaulin, ropes knotted around
driftwood poles, a hand-painted sign that had already begun to peel in the sun.
Danny stood just inside the flap, clutching the Casio CZ‑101 under one arm,
feeling the familiar tremor in his fingers. The crowd was small: twenty, maybe
thirty people, most of them sitting cross-legged on flattened grass, some
leaning against the tent poles, a few already drifting toward the exit.

He plugged the keyboard into the battered DI box, heard the faint hum of
electricity and exhaled. The tent smelled of damp canvas, incense and the sour
tang of cider. A girl with a shaved head and a Low Tide Records tote bag gave
him a thumbs-up. He nodded back, unsure if he deserved it.

The first notes came out thin and hesitant. His old songs —once loud and
swaggering things— were now stripped to their bones. Without the off-key guitar
riffs or the disco sheen, they sounded like something else entirely: fragile,
almost shy. He kept his eyes on the keys, afraid to look up and see boredom or
pity.

A few people swayed. Someone clapped in the wrong place. A couple wandered
out.

He swallowed, leaned into the mic. “Sorry. New one.”

The apology hung in the air like a damp towel. He played anyway. A slow,
looping melody; the kind he used to write before anyone cared. At first, the
crowd stiffened —new material was always a gamble— but then the chorus arrived,
simple and plaintive, and something shifted. A few voices joined in. Then more.
By the final refrain, the tent was singing with him, soft but steady, like a
tide coming in.

When the last note faded, the applause surprised him. Not loud, not wild,
but real. Forgiving. Human.

He unplugged the keyboard quickly, wanting to escape before the warmth
turned into scrutiny. The “backstage” area was nothing more than a curtain and
a patch of trampled grass behind it. He bent to duck through, heart still
thudding.

A man stepped into his path. “Mate! That was wicked.”

Danny blinked. The man was about his age, maybe a little younger, wearing a
brand-new tracksuit that tried too hard to look casual. Gold chain, expensive
trainers, a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Essex leisure gear, but the vowels
were wrong. Too rounded, too educated.

“I used to love your early stuff,” the man said, clapping Danny’s shoulder.
“Proper nights, that. Proper memories.”

Danny forced a smile. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

The man launched into anecdotes: clubs Danny barely remembered, gigs he
definitely didn’t play, stories that grew more self-congratulatory with each
breath. Danny nodded, inching sideways, but the man kept pace.

Then he said it: “My wife once thought you’d had me beaten up. Silly bitch.
Funny thing is, it brought us back together.”

Danny froze. The air in the tent seemed to thin.

The man laughed, oblivious. “Jules dragged me here with her hippy brother to
check out loser bands. Didn’t think I’d see you.”

Danny’s stomach dropped. “Mark?”

The man grinned. “Knew the penny’d drop.”

Danny took a step back, ready to leave, but Mark turned and shouted, “Oi!
Dan! Come here, mate.”

A boy trotted over. Ten years old, maybe. Fair hair, serious eyes, a polite
half-smile. He looked nothing like Mark. He looked, painfully, like Julie.

“This is Daniel,” Mark said. “Don’t be shy, lad.”

Daniel glanced at the keyboard under Danny’s arm. “Is that yours? It makes
cool sounds. Like Daddy’s old video games.”

Danny hesitated, then switched it on. The synth crackled to life. Daniel
pressed a key, then another, then a sequence. Hesitant at first, then
confident. He played a motif from Electric Grace, one of Danny’s old
tracks, then nudged it into a minor key.

“Is this what you were trying to do?” he asked.

Danny stared. “Yeah. Exactly that.”

Mark snorted. “Little toerag can tinkle the ivories. Gets it from me.”

Daniel ignored him. He and Danny took turns at the keys: call and response,
little riffs, experiments. The boy’s fingers were quick and curious. Danny felt
something loosen in his chest, something warm and painful.

Mark checked his watch. “Right, enough. Come on, Dan.”

Daniel stepped back reluctantly.

Danny acted before he could think. “Take it,” he said, holding out the
keyboard. “You play it better than I do.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “You sure? Looks like it’s worth about a tenner.”

Daniel’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Really,” Danny said.

The boy hugged the keyboard awkwardly. “Thank you.”

Mark tugged his shoulder. “Say bye.”

“Bye,” Daniel said and they disappeared into the crowd.

Danny stood alone behind the curtain, feeling strangely lighter, as if he’d
given away something he no longer needed.

Weeks later, Low Tide Records forwarded him an envelope. The handwriting on
the front made his breath catch. Inside was a letter.

Thank you for the keyboard. Daniel hasn’t stopped playing it. He says it
sounds “Wicked, like the TARDIS going wonky.” I think that’s a compliment.

I’m sorry about the last time we met. I wasn’t prepared for the feelings
and memories it stirred up. I’m sorry for what I said. I was angry and tired
and I didn’t expect... Well, least said...

Daniel asked if you’re a real musician. I told him yes. I told him you
always were.

Take care, Danny.

Julie x

The single x sat at the bottom of the page like a small, steady
light.