Page 74 of Thanks for Coming Along

Falling deeper than any shipwreck

Inhale water into the lungs

Words deadened on the tip of a forked tongue

You can be my martyr

Or lay like the blood after the slaughter

As the tide wears the fawn sands,

And with my heart more jaded than the rocks beneath

Your reverent hands held my countless dreams

Her voice, like a velvet whisper, filled the air as she sang. You could hear a pin drop in the audience; everyone seemed as captivated as he was.

He knew how hard it was for Eden to trust in what they had. She’d spent her life bracing for abandonment. Ending their relationship hadn’t been about rejecting him; it was her way of protecting herself. A defense mechanism to guard against the hurt she believed was inevitable. It was self-preservation. Survival.

Your heart the casualty in the battle with my naivety

Burning bright, the most brilliant commodity

You're an angel conspiring with a devil in disguise

Covered in scar tissue but I am finally baptized,

By your lips when you called me "baby"

His eyes stayed glued to the screen as he watched her fingers move effortlessly over the strings, pulling out a melody that was both haunting and beautiful. His stomach twisted when she sang the words, "Devil in disguise." It hit him instantly—that was something he’d said to her, not long ago, a confession in the heat of the moment.

The realization hit hard: she was there, on national TV, pouring her heart out in a song that felt like it was meant just for him. Every note carried her talent and passion, undeniable and mesmerizing. The camera shifted to Beck on the drums, creating a soft, eerie backdrop with a felt mallet. Then back to her. Her eyes, first closed in focus, opened and fixed on the lens. At that moment, it felt like she was looking straight at him, singing every word directly to his soul. His heart raced, and he couldn’t breathe as the song built, pulling him deeper into its spell.

Did you believe I'd falter?

Let this storm tear our love asunder

Did you think that I would surrender?

That the roots could be shaken, turned to dust?

As if storms could make the pillars fall

Why would I cower before any storm was drawn when,

My life of tempests from the very dawn

And whatever remains of me after the gale is yours to keep

Chills raced over his body as he sat there, completely captivated by her. Everything about her—her voice, her mind, her presence—was beautiful. Her words were pure poetry, and while her voice was steady and controlled, the vulnerability in each lyric and chord was raw and unfiltered. This wasn’t just a performance; it was a truth she was laying bare, a declaration that despite everything, she wasn’t going to let this slip away. She wasn’t going to lethimslip away. His chest tightened, and a wave of relief almost made his body sag.

The guitar’s rhythm picked up, each strum growing bolder and more resolute. Then came a split-second pause, followed by a burst of light as the stage transformed. The camera revealed a smaller figure stepping into view beside Eden—a fiddle joining the guitar and drums.

The camera panned, and there he was: Ronan’s Grandad, standing next to Eden, his well-worn tweed news cap perched perfectly on his head, the glossy wood of his fiddle catching the light. Ronan’s jaw dropped as he stared at the screen, then turned to Sadie. She was grinning, tears shimmering in her eyes.

“How is this even happening?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

His attention snapped back to the screen. Grandad’s weathered hands glided effortlessly over the fiddle strings. The music swelled, layers of sound weaving together into something both haunting and breathtaking. Eden’s voice soared, reaching the upper register with a raw, powerful beauty that left him breathless.

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