THis is from a @Diamond Quill prompt I wrote thought I would share The stage was lit with golden light, A thousand faces filled the night. The band played on, the crowd stood tall, They came to hear the singer call. For years he'd sung through joy and pain, Through summer sun and winter rain. His songs had carried broken hearts, And stitched together shattered parts. But one cold morning, something changed. The notes he knew felt far away. He opened wide to sing a tune, Yet silence filled the empty room. The doctors spoke in careful words, Like distant thunder barely heard. "The voice you knew may never be The voice that once came naturally." The world grew quiet after that. No encore cries, no welcome mats. The microphone stood all alone, A monument to what was gone. He wandered through forgotten years, Collecting dust and hidden tears. For who is a singer, he would ask, When singing is a vanished task? Then one day in a small cafรฉ, He watched a young musician play. The boy missed chords and lost the beat, Yet still stood proudly on his feet. The singer smiled and took a chair. He offered wisdom gathered there. He taught him rhythm, taught him grace, And how to find his truest place. Soon others came from near and far, With battered dreams and old guitars. And though his voice could no longer soar, His songs were living evermore. For music isn't only sound. It's every heart that gathers 'round. It's every soul you've helped believe When they had nothing up their sleeve. And so the singer came to see His voice was more than melody. Though silence claimed the songs he'd sung, A thousand voices now carried on. The crowd still cheers. The lights still shine. The music lives beyond one line. For sometimes when a dream must end, It finds a way to live again.