Inside a small, chilly hospital room, a quiet sob escaped from Kyle as he sat by the edge of his mother’s bed. His small hands clutched hers tightly. Venus hadn’t woken up since the accident.
Mom, please wake up. I need you, he whispered, his voice trembling as he tried to hold back his sobs. No answer came.
Only the soft rhythm of machines and the faint sound of her breathing filled the room. Wiping his tears, Kyle knew he shouldn’t cry, but the pain was too strong to hold in. A knock on the door startled him.
He turned to see Mrs. Nora, the elderly landlady of the apartment they rented. Kyle, sweetheart, have you eaten? she asked, concern etched on her face. Kyle shook his head.
Why don’t you come with me? I’ll get you some bread, she offered gently. He shook his head again. I’d rather stay here, Mrs. Nora.
I don’t want to be alone at home. And I don’t want to leave mom alone either, he said sadly. Mrs. Nora sighed but didn’t push further.
Kyle, honey, what are you and your mom going to do now? Has no help come yet? I’m so sorry I can’t do more. Her voice trembled with concern. Kyle fell silent.
He recalled the nurses talking about the hospital bill earlier. They hadn’t paid their rent and now there were hospital bills piling up. He had to do something.
Mrs. Nora, do you know where I can earn some money? Kyle asked boldly. Oh, child, you’re too young to be working, she replied with a frown. I can do it, I will.
For mom, Kyle said, wiping his cheek. The old woman paused then suddenly remembered. I heard there’s an audition at a big music studio.
They’re holding a contest for young singers. Kyle’s eyes widened. Singers? Yes, and the prize is big.
Even if you don’t win, you’ll still get something. It’s worth a try, isn’t it? And I’ve heard you sing. You have a lovely voice, honey, she said with admiration.
Kyle blushed at the praise. He knew it wasn’t just a regular audition, but he had no choice. He had to try.
Mom, I’m going to the music studio, okay? I’m going to find a way, he whispered, still holding her hand. Turning back to Mrs. Nora, he nodded. I’ll try.
Thank you so much. The next day, Kyle stood in front of the towering building of Harper Music Studios. He swallowed hard at the size of the place.
Children were everywhere, cameras flashing, and celebrities walking around. It was overwhelming, but he couldn’t back down. He approached the registration booth nervously.
Ma’am, I’d like to join the audition, Kyle said. How old are you? The woman behind the table asked, eyeing him. Six, he answered politely.
The staff exchanged glances, clearly unsure. Are you with someone? she asked. Kyle shook his head.
I came alone. My mom’s in the hospital. That’s why I’m here.
The woman noticed his faded clothes and worn out shoes. A hint of sympathy crossed her face. She offered him a kind smile.
What’s your name? she asked. Kyle Anderson, he replied. The woman froze.
So did the rest of the staff. Kyle noticed the strange reaction. Is there a problem? he asked, puzzled.
No, no problem. We were just surprised by your last name, that’s all. Here, fill this out, she said quickly, handing him a form.
With the help of a kind staff member, Kyle completed the audition form and joined the line. Hours passed until finally it was his turn. He stepped into the audition room where three judges and the studio owner, Zayn Anderson, were seated.
Kyle’s eyes grew wide. That’s my idol, Zayn, he whispered in awe. Zayn looked at the boy, so young, he thought.
Too young for this competition, yet there was something familiar about the kid. He checked the form again. Kyle Anderson, is that really your name, son? he asked, stunned.
Yes, sir, Kyle replied brightly. Zayn swallowed hard. A strange feeling surged through him.
Something connected him to this boy, aside from the matching surname. Okay, Kyle, you may begin. Kyle took a deep breath and smiled, then began to sing, no background music, just his pure voice.
Everyone in the room was stunned. Zayn’s eyes widened as the song struck him. The lyrics, they weren’t just any lyrics.
They were familiar, too familiar. He hadn’t heard that song in years. It was a private song, a song only Venus knew.
It hit Zayn like a wave. Memories flooded in. That small, cozy condo.
A quiet night. Homemade dinner. A tiny birthday cake.
Venus, in a simple dress, handed him utensils. Happy birthday, Zayn, she said, smiling. You didn’t have to do this, he had said.
Of course I did. It’s your birthday. I should be the one treating you, she replied.
After dinner, she picked up her guitar. I wrote a song for you. I hope you like it.