Maybe she needed to prove it to herself, that the Bell of Wartime Music had not left her completely.

Putting down the dog, she padded in her stockinged feet through the house, the wooden floor cool beneath her nylon-covered soles, to her bedroom. Past the massive gold-framed bed draped in silk sheets, rumpled and untouched. She'd stopped making the bed after Henry died, afraid smoothing the sheets might erase the dent he left behind. Past her mirrored vanity, cluttered with elegant little bottles: Chanel N°5, Shalimar, Joy by Jean Patou. Scents that once clung to her pulse points, to the folds of her blouses. On the nightstand sat a crystal ashtray, a lipstick-smudged cigarette extinguished but forgotten from the night before.

She bypassed all of these things as if they didn't exist.

Instead, she crossed to the closet, sliding open the heavy doors. Cool air wafted out, laced with cedar and the faint traces of Henry that grew weaker with each passing day. She pushed aside rows of silk blouses and sequined dresses until her fingers brushed something solid—the smooth wood handle of her guitar, tucked away behind decades of careful appearances.

She pulled the Gibson L-00 free—a gift from Henry early in their marriage. Her fingers danced over the rounded shoulders and narrowed waist of solid spruce, admiring that the sunburst finish had hardly faded. The dark outer edge had a nick on one side, barely noticeable because of the appealing honey-colored center, which drew the eye. But she remembered how the nick had gotten there. A kiss that made her jerk and hit her beloved instrument against a microphone stand.

Her thumb grazed the chords' steel wire, eliciting a soft hum that broke the stillness of memory. Eleanor closed her eyes, letting the vibration of the chords ricochet from her fingertips up her arms.

Roxy barked at her feet, pulling her from her memories. Her tail wagged furiously, demanding Eleanor sing.

Eleanor flipped the guitar over, giving it a gentle shake. A tiny, folded note fluttered to the floor, landing like a forgotten promise on the thick shag carpet of her closet.

She crouched, the guitar resting against her knee, and unfolded the yellowed paper, careful not to rip the aged edges. Three words stared back at her, ink slightly smudged.

Her breath caught. The memory washed over her like a swell—laughter backstage, a whisper in her ear, the scent of cigarette smoke and the leather of an old aviator jacket. She smiled, her fingers moving instinctively, languidly, over the strings, coaxing out a lazy melody.

There had never been a next time. She had met Henry, fallen in love. And she'd tucked the note inside the guitar, unable to bring herself to throw it away. Even as she traded away the possibility it hinted at—traded it for family, responsibility, the safety of routine.

That was a choice. A life of stardom and love versus stability and heart.

But standing here now, the weight of the guitar in her hands, the taste of old perfume still clinging to the air, she wondered, if life was about to slip away from her, piece by piece—why couldn't she revisit old choices, decide how life ended?

Why couldn't she make the rest of her until next time be right now? Yesterday, she'd spotted an article folded in the corner of the newspaper, nearly overlooked. The Newport Pop Festival. California. Next week.

All the way across the country, but something about the idea of a music festival buzzed beneath her skin, lit her up like stage lights.

If she packed now, she could be there. She could walk among the crowd, guitar slung across her back, maybe even find a stage where no one cared how old she was or how many years she'd spent stringing laundry instead of chords. The Bell of Wartime Music could make one last appearance.

The thought made her pulse quicken.

But then doubt slithered in—could she make it in time? She couldn't recall what the calendar on the wall in her kitchen marked neatly in her daughter's handwriting said. And she didn't really care.

Flying seemed safest. She had enough money tucked away to buy a plane ticket without blinking. Maybe that would keep her from getting turned around, ending up in the wrong city or on the wrong coast. Driving across the country alone...that felt like tempting fate. A week on the road might be one detour too far for her fraying memory.

The doctor hadn't given her a timeline. First, it had been little things—misplacing her keys, standing in the cereal aisle when she meant to be lighting a candle for Henry at church. Picking up the phone and not recognizing the voice on the other end—her own daughter.

No one could say when the gaps would widen, the pace would speed up, memories and everyday functions would vanish and stay gone for good.

She shook the ugly thoughts away, banishing them like smoke. She wouldn't give the forgetting, the diagnosis, any more space.

Not today.

Instead, she focused on the festival. The hum of guitars in the distance, the thrum of bass vibrating through the soles of her shoes, voices rising into the summer air. A chance to be Eleanor Bell again—the girl who'd never needed permission to be loud.

Eleanor wanted her song to stretch into one endless chord shimmering beneath the California sun.