After an unexpected transfer in her career, a young singer is swept into a whirlwind of life-changing events surrounding new romance, intergenerational friendships, and the music that intertwines it all.
Inspired by true events.
(( COMPLETED )...
We arrived back home from New York on Monday afternoon, after an early morning flight to Chattanooga. Most of the snow had melted over the weekend, exposing patches of green across the landscape. It was a welcomed sight, along with the golden late afternoon sun that cast a glow from behind the line of trees along the horizon as we made our way up the drive to the farmhouse. It was a stark contrast from the towering concrete maze of the city, and there was something special about coming home to our little paradise away from everyone else, where we could truly be ourselves.
As soon as I made it into the bedroom, I dropped my suitcase handle, slumped my carry-on bag onto the floor at the foot of the bed, turned 180 degrees and flopped down on my back, blowing out a burst of air.
I heard Yoongi's nearly inaudible chuckle as he padded quietly into the room on his already bare feet.
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"It's only 4:00," his chuckle turned to a more playful laugh as he made his way over to stand over me, slapping his two palms down on my thighs as my legs hung bent over the foot of the bed, "We have something important to do today. Surely you're not ready for bed yet."
He extended his hand to me, and though I rolled my eyes at him, I let him pull me up into his arms for a sweet kiss on the forehead.
"Welcome home, baby," he smiled against my temple.
It wasn't until we turned down the street that I realized where we were going. I had noticed the street sign and remembered the conversation I had with Jane only days prior.
"Black Rock Road," I said quietly as we pulled into the hospice center parking lot, "That's where Jane said he was staying."
We made our way down long corridors of faux wood flooring, sterile ivory walls, and mass-produced generic wall art hung too predictably. Most doors we passed had either a seasonal wreath or a carved wood welcome sign, but every so often we'd pass doors that were bare.
I wonder if those people don't have someone to hang a wreath for them.
"Here it is. Room 4A. Roy Young," Yoongi said quietly, pausing to look at me with his hand on the door handle, his eyes searching mine for emotional cues.
I nodded silently, feeling a knot in my stomach as we entered the room.
The sound of gentle, low music trickled through the opening door as we walked into the dimly lit room filled with familiar furniture. The room smelled like their house from all of the scents permeating the upholstery and wood.
