Page 17 of The Mountain Man's Secret Star
I was singing to the crowd, but my eyes were locked on Gavin. I watched his careful composure crack slightly, watched three years of distance collapse as he remembered why these lyrics had pulled him back from his darkest moment.
He's the reason this song matters. He's the reason any of it matters.
The song ended to enthusiastic applause, but I barely heard it. My pulse was racing, and suddenly the choice that had seemed impossible this afternoon crystallized into perfect clarity.
Keisha's label offer was incredible—the kind of opportunity most artists would kill for. But it was asking me to recreate something I'd found here, to manufacture authenticity in a recording studio, to turn whatever I'd discovered about myself into a product.
"You know," I said, setting my guitar aside and gripping the microphone stand, "I need to tell you all something. About this song, about what brought me here, about the power of music to change lives in ways we never expect."
The crowd settled, sensing something important happening on stage. Behind them, the comet grew brighter, its tail streaming across the star-scattered sky.
"Three years ago, I wrote 'Small Town Dreams' in a Nashville apartment, feeling homesick for a place I'd never been. I was questioning everything—my career, my choices, whether the dreams I was chasing were even mine anymore." My voice carried clearly across the December air. "What I didn't know was that those words would find their way to someone who needed them desperately."
I found Gavin in the crowd again, held his gaze as I continued.
"Somewhere in Calgary, a brilliant chef was having his own crisis. Working in a kitchen that was slowly destroying his love for food, questioning whether dreams were supposed to hurt so much to achieve. And somehow, impossibly, my song found him at exactly the moment he needed permission to choose something different."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd as people began to understand the story I was telling. I caught sight of Keisha at the side of the stage, her expression shifting from curious to concerned as she realized where this was heading.
"That chef is here tonight," I continued, my voice growing stronger with each word. "And this week, he's returned the favor. He's reminded me what it means to create from the heart instead of from obligation. To feed people—literally and figuratively—because it matters, not because a contract demands it."
Gavin's careful distance was completely gone now. I could see the hope warring with disbelief in his expression, couldpractically feel him holding his breath as he waited to see what I'd do next.
Choose, Sadie. Choose what matters.
"Earlier today, I received a contract offer that most artists would call the opportunity of a lifetime. A major label deal with complete creative control, financial security, the chance to make music on a scale I'd only dreamed of." I paused, letting the weight of that announcement settle. "It would require me to move to Los Angeles, commit to extensive touring, and try to recreate what I've found here in recording studios three thousand miles away."
The festival grounds had gone completely quiet except for the distant sounds of Christmas music and the soft whisper of snow beginning to fall. Above us, the comet's warm fire pulsed—eleven fifty-eight, less than two minutes from its destined moment of perfect alignment.
"But here's what I've learned this week: authenticity isn't something you can manufacture or export. Community isn't something you can recreate in a different zip code. And love—real love—isn't something you walk away from for any contract, no matter how many zeros it contains."
My heart was hammering so hard I was sure the microphone would pick it up, but I pressed on.
"So I'm making a different choice. I'm choosing to build my career around what matters most—real connection, authentic music, and the people who remind me why I fell in love with singing in the first place." I took a breath that felt like stepping off a cliff. "I'm staying in Silver Ridge."
The crowd erupted. Not polite applause or enthusiastic cheering, but the kind of wild celebration that came from witnessing something genuinely unexpected and beautiful. People were hugging each other, wiping away tears, shouting encouragement toward the stage.
But my focus was entirely on Gavin. I watched shock give way to wonder, watched years of careful self-protection crumble as he processed what I'd just announced to hundreds of people.
I'd chosen him. Chosen us. Chosen this.
When the cheers finally died down, I picked up my guitar again.
"Now I want to share something with you that I've never performed before. Something I wrote this week, sitting under this very comet, thinking about the courage it takes to wish for what you really want instead of what feels safe."
The melody came as naturally as breathing—the tune I'd been humming unconsciously since that first night when Gavin's soup had awakened something I'd thought was lost forever:
*"I've been running from my own reflection,
Chasing dreams that weren't quite mine,
But tonight under cosmic protection,
I'm finally ready to draw the line.
The comet sees what hearts are hoping,
Knows the wishes we're afraid to make—
