Page 8 of Life After You

Yeah. Sounds about right.

Music felt different as I got older—as I was introduced to more genres, more sounds that cracked open something inside me.

For the longest time, I was forced to practice every day—classic Spanish pieces on acoustic guitar. My abuela made sure of it. She was strict about it, relentless even. But I never resented it. Not really. She had a love for music so deep it felt like religion, and because of her, I did too. I played for her. Always for her.

Then that awkward, bony kid and his loudmouth twin sister shoved metal into my hands, and it was like my brain chemistry rewired itself on the spot. The first time I heard those distorted riffs, that raw, unfiltered energy, something clicked. It wasn’t just about technique anymore. It was feeling. Rage. Power. Freedom.

I never stopped loving what my abuela taught me. I still hear her voice when I pick up an acoustic. But metal?

Metal was mine.

I stand backstage, staring out at the stadium. The crowd is silent, an eerie contrast to the usual roar of anticipation. On the massive screens, a memorial for Braden plays, a montage of moments frozen in time. His crooked smile, his fierce energy on stage, the way he commanded every room he walked into. The weight of his absence hangs heavy in the air, pressing down on all of us.

I drag a hand through my hair, glancing at my guitar leaning against the wall. Tonight’s set is daunting. We’re deviating from the script, and some people are going to hate it. But fuck it.

We are not the Burnt Ashes tribute act.We. Are. Burnt. Ashes.

I’ve sung these songs a thousand times, but of course, they sound different without Braden. With me taking lead, there were pauses and delays in the early soundchecks, those little moments where we instinctively waited for him—only to bemet with silence. It had been rough at first, but the fans had rolled with it. Management wasn’t breathing down our necks or threatening to pull the plug, so something must be going right.

But tonight… tonight is different.

This isn’t just me as Logan Dale from Burnt Ashes.Tonight, for at least one set, it’s just me.

I can feel it building inside me, that pressure, the weight of the moment. The encore is coming, the make-or-break part of the night, and I know what’s next.

Second Chances.

The song that belongs to him.

I swallow hard. We could skip it. Avoid the inevitable. Pretend it doesn’t exist.

No. That’s fucking cowardly.

The set moves forward like clockwork, the band hitting every cue, the energy electric—right up until the encore. The lights dim. My heart slams against my ribs as Sam and Trey offer silent nods of reassurance, patting my shoulder before they slip off stage with Chace close behind.

The stage manager’s voice squawks in my ear.

"Four seconds, Logan."

I move back, finding the stool a stagehand just set down. Another one rushes over, handing me my acoustic as I exchange my Strat with care, watching her like she’s made of fine bone china.

"Wait—where’s the rest of the band? Logan? Logan!"

I pull the mic earpiece out, cracking my neck with a smirk.

"Apologies. We’re doing this a little differently."

The crowd is still cheering, screaming, but as I angle the main mic and tap it lightly, the energy shifts. People quiet down, sensing the change.

"You’ve all been a fucking brilliant audience tonight." My voice carries across the venue, raw, unpolished. Real. "We—Burnt Ashes—want to thank you. It means everything to us."

The screams surge again, a mix of sweet declarations and—yeah, a few sexually explicit ones. A smirk tugs at my lips.

The lights come back on, but the guys aren’t at their stations.

"Just me for now, por favor."

The stage crew catches the hint, dimming the other sets until I’m left alone in the glow. The butterflies churn in my stomach—not from stage fright, but from the weight of what I’m about to do.

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