{"id":1998,"date":"2024-12-18T01:01:34","date_gmt":"2024-12-18T07:01:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/?p=1998"},"modified":"2024-02-10T10:22:33","modified_gmt":"2024-02-10T16:22:33","slug":"where-the-light-first-hit","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/tourblog\/where-the-light-first-hit\/","title":{"rendered":"Where the Light First Hit"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

The morning sun over Lincoln came up soft and amber, casting golden warmth across the quiet suburbs and old university streets like it knew<\/em> something special was about to happen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emily stood on the bus steps, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, staring at the familiar neighborhood like it was a memory she\u2019d forgotten was real. The houses weren\u2019t big. The sidewalks were cracked in places. And there, just half a block up, was a white house with flowerbeds blooming wild, a weather-worn windchime clinking lazily in the breeze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s it,\u201d she said softly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Diesel killed the engine without being asked. \u201cWant us to come with?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emily hesitated. \u201cGive me five minutes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thane nodded. \u201cWe\u2019ll be right here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She walked up the sidewalk with a slow, deliberate pace, like her feet were remembering the weight of home after years on unfamiliar roads. The front door opened before she knocked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her mother\u2014small, auburn-haired like her, with that same soft expression and the kind of eyes that read right through you\u2014stood in the doorway, hand to her mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHi, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman made a choked sound and pulled her daughter into a hug so tight it knocked the air out of her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re real,\u201d her mom whispered. \u201cYou\u2019re really here.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emily laughed into her shoulder. \u201cI missed you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

They didn\u2019t stay long\u2014just enough to catch up in a sunlit kitchen filled with the smell of cinnamon tea and warm scones. Her mom showed her a stack of articles, concert posters, and screenshots of every moment she\u2019d ever appeared in a Feral Eclipse video.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour face at Glastonbury when the bass rig blew out?\u201d her mom said, grinning. \u201cYou looked like someone had unplugged the universe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emily blushed. \u201cIt felt like it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They talked about the band. The pack. The road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then her mom said something unexpected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know the old music shop? The one where you used to hang out after school?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emily looked up. \u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey\u2019re closing down. Final day is today.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her heart sank. \u201cSeriously?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her mom nodded. \u201cThey said anyone who wanted to come by and say goodbye was welcome.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

The shop was called Weatherby\u2019s Strings & Things<\/strong>, and it looked exactly the same as it always had\u2014crooked display window, cracked sign, rows of guitars that hadn\u2019t been dusted since the Clinton administration.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Emily walked in with Thane, Gabriel, and Rico in tow, the owner\u2014a wiry man with a ponytail and a shop apron covered in guitar picks\u2014blinked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEmily?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey, Mr. Weatherby,\u201d she said shyly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked past her at the wolves, all towering, curious, and just slightly out of place under the acoustic ceiling tiles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou in a band now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSort of,\u201d Gabriel said with a grin. \u201cShe\u2019s the reason we don\u2019t trip on our own cables.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Weatherby laughed and opened his arms. \u201cWell, hell.<\/em> Take a look around. It\u2019s the last day. Play whatever you want. You earned<\/em> it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Emily wandered over to a display shelf and stopped at a small, battered ukulele.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thane came up behind her. \u201cThat yours?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI learned to play on this exact one,\u201d she said. \u201cMr. Weatherby let me borrow it during summer school. Said I could keep it if I ever played a show.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gabriel was already strumming a dusty acoustic in the corner. Rico had plugged in a Telecaster and was improvising something slow and bluesy. The mood in the room shifted, soft and warm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emily picked up the uke and tuned it by feel, fingers moving instinctively. And then, just quietly, she began to play.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No spotlight. No crowd. Just four friends and an old man in a music shop that time had nearly forgotten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her voice was soft\u2014barely above a whisper\u2014but full of something that made Thane stop mid-breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou never said you could sing,\u201d he murmured when she finished.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emily shrugged, eyes down. \u201cI never said I couldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Weatherby chuckled. \u201cStill humble as ever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thane leaned down and looked her in the eyes. \u201cNext acoustic set, you\u2019re doing backup.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gabriel raised a paw. \u201cSeconded.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emily smiled, cheeks flushed. \u201cWe\u2019ll see.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

That night, back on the bus, the ukulele sat beside her bunk, newly gifted by Weatherby and freshly restrung by Gabriel, who claimed \u201ca wolf with a Leatherman\u201d could fix anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emily lay curled up with the little instrument beside her, staring at the ceiling, full to bursting with everything she hadn\u2019t known she needed to remember.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mark passed by her bunk and paused. \u201cGood visit?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She nodded. \u201cYeah. Really good.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mark gave a rare, warm nod. \u201cGlad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The bus rolled on through the Nebraska dark.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And somewhere in the shadows, Emily strummed a soft chord that sounded like home.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The morning sun over Lincoln came up soft and amber, casting golden warmth across the quiet suburbs and old university streets like it knew something special was about to happen. Emily stood on the bus steps, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, staring at the familiar neighborhood like it was a memory she\u2019d forgotten […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1998","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-tour-life"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/tourblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1998","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/tourblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/tourblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/tourblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/tourblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1998"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/tourblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1998\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2956,"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/tourblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1998\/revisions\/2956"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/tourblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1998"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/tourblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1998"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/threewerewolves.com\/tourblog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1998"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}