Original Song

The golden morning light spilled through the high windows of Santoro's Music Store as Carter pushed open the familiar creaky door. The scent of aged wood, rosin, and that peculiar metallic tang from the brass instruments in the repair shop wrapped around him like a well-worn jacket as he descended the stairs two at a time. His sneakers scuffed against the worn wooden steps - the same ones he'd tripped on during his first visit months ago when he was still the awkward new kid trying too hard to impress.

The underground rehearsal space hummed with anticipatory energy before he even reached the bottom. Carter could hear the murmur of voices, the occasional pluck of bass strings, and Simon's restless fingers tapping out rhythms on whatever surface was nearest. He rounded the corner to find their makeshift studio already alive with activity, the overhead lights casting long shadows across the scuffed hardwood floor.