The Greatest Showman #917 - Carry a Dream

Gradually, the melody faded, and the final notes of the song lingered in the air, leaving behind a bittersweet yet uplifting aftertaste—gentle, like the warmth of the afternoon sun, soft and light.

Renly's emotions slowly settled. The sharp bitterness that had lingered on his tongue gave way to a raw awareness of the reality he had been avoiding. The pain of his loss, long buried and numb, finally surged, impossible to ignore. It was deep and real, an ache that made it difficult to look at directly. But now, at last, he could begin to heal.

As he reopened his eyes, the blur of his vision cleared. He found himself staring at Old Frank, who was sitting beside him with a weathered, rough face—his life etched into every wrinkle. Renly took a sip from his beer, trying to swallow away the lingering sorrow.

Old Frank, noticing Renly's gaze, didn't ask any questions. Instead, he simply looked at him for a moment before turning away with a gruff, "Want a beer?"

"Sure," Renly replied.

He grabbed the beer, took a swig, and grimaced. "Damn, this beer is terrible."

Old Frank let out a laugh, "Yeah, it's awful." Then he took another swig, adding, "God, it's so bad, it makes you want to kill yourself."

Renly chuckled. "So, is this like absinthe?"

The young bartender didn't get the joke, but Old Frank laughed heartily. "Exactly."

It was always like this with artists—tortured by the act of creation, finding both pain and joy in the process. Reality was crashing around Renly now, and the truth of it all had settled in. Heather was gone, and with her went the dreams she could never realize: the dream of "American Idol," the dream of being a singer, of standing on stage, expressing herself through music, and changing the world with it.

The album Don Quixote had carried not only George Slender and Stanley Charlesson's dreams but Heather's as well. Now, Renly would carry those dreams too. He would carry Heather's dreams forward, along with his own, as an artist—both actor and singer.

He had felt this clearly when he received the Grammy for Album of the Year. But today, it was something deeper, something more profound.

Renly wasn't destined to be a professional singer—he didn't compose regularly, he didn't tour, and he didn't perform for the Grammy stage. His primary focus was acting, and there was still so much for him to achieve in that world. But maybe, just maybe, Don Quixote would lead to another album. He wasn't sure when, but when the time was right, he'd embrace it with open arms.

"I won't miss it again," he reminded himself.

He glanced over at Old Frank, who was sitting next to him. "Hey, can I borrow your guitar? Or, do you want to join in?"

Old Frank looked at him, confused. He didn't know Renly, and that wasn't surprising. There was no mention of Renly on the Don Quixote album, and for people like Old Frank, it wasn't about the artist's fame—it was about the music itself.

Still, Old Frank smiled, "You like music? Of course, welcome. Let's go."

Renly followed him onto the stage—if you could even call it a stage. It was more of a small area with high stools, instruments, and a garden, nothing compared to a professional venue.

"What kind of music do you play?" Old Frank asked, looking at Renly with interest.

Renly chuckled lightly. "Just enjoying the music," he said, avoiding a direct answer.

Old Frank didn't mind. "Of course, of course. That's what it's all about," he said, handing Renly his guitar. "I just tuned it, but the strings are a bit tight. See how you feel."

Renly nodded, took the guitar, and began adjusting it, skillfully tuning it. "Do you want to play along? Could you handle the drums? Or is that rude?"

"No, no," Old Frank said quickly, waving his hands. "What song are you doing? My drum skills are basic, but I can keep up with the rhythm."

Renly smiled. "That's perfect." He thought for a moment, then began tapping out a rhythm on the guitar.

Old Frank tentatively joined in on the drums, following the beat.

"That's it, just a little heavier," Renly encouraged. "When we get to the chorus, switch to this rhythm."

As they played, the music came alive, flowing between them, seamless and unspoken. Renly's fingers danced over the guitar, the melody light and clear, a sound as fresh as spring. The rhythm of the drums kept pace, grounding the song, adding depth and power.

"May you take a brave leap and be fearless; may you build a high wall when the tide hits; may your name be called when the crowd cheers," Renly sang, his voice warm and rich, wrapping the words in strength and hope.

Old Frank couldn't help but stare in awe. The music was simple, but the emotion it carried was powerful. The lyrics—simple but profound—spoke of persistence and resilience, of fighting for one's dreams against all odds.

"May you fall in love, but your body be covered with bruises. Only through suffering can you be fully enlightened. May you face the world unafraid, and shout when it's time: I gave everything, and I have no regrets!"

Renly's voice soared, the song pulsing with passion, determination, and joy. "I did it all," he sang. "I swear I lived."

The song became a declaration of living fully, of chasing dreams with everything you've got, even if it means scars along the way. Renly lived. He truly lived. And when it was all said and done, he would have no regrets.

Because, as he sang:

"I swear I lived."