The work was mine, the choices were mine, and I had people around me willing to speak plainly when something mattered.

On the first of the following month, I woke early out of an old habit.

For an instant, I felt the familiar urge to place two hundred and fifty dollars on the kitchen table.

Then I remembered there was no payment due, no stern face waiting across from me, no condition attached to staying.

I made coffee and opened the studio calendar.

There were students coming at ten, a recording session in the afternoon, and a quiet evening left free for my own songs.

I put on my jacket, picked up the guitar case, and went out into the morning.

When I unlocked Open Door Recording, sunlight filled the hall.

I paused beneath the pictures: Dad onstage, Mom singing, and a new generation of musicians learning to find their voices.

Then I switched on the lights and opened the door for whoever came next.

THE END.