Yanis Colon wanted a stage. Not this one, with its wobbly stool and one hot lamp, but a real stage, bright and huge, with her name on it. Tonight was the open-mic night, and her name was already on the list. The problem was simple and terrible. She had no song ready, and she could feel her throat closing. She sat backstage and held her cat against her chest. The little cat had soft purple fur and a dark heart shape on its side. It purred. Yanis did not. "I've got nothing," she whispered. "I sign up, and my mind goes blank." She had practiced covers for weeks. Every one felt borrowed. None of them were hers. A voice near the door made the whole room shift. "You're up in ten. Better pick something." The organizer pointed at the sign-up sheet, then at a table near the front. A man sat there with medium blonde hair and a black jacket. People kept glancing at him and looking away fast. Yanis knew the face. Park Jimin. He booked new singers for real tours. One nod from him could change everything. Her stomach dropped. This was the audience she had dreamed about, and she had nothing to sing. She dug through her bag for water and found something else instead. Her old diary. Worn cover, faded tabs sticking out the side. She had carried it for years without opening it. She flipped it now with shaking hands. Between two ripped pages she found a song. Her own handwriting, fourteen years old. She had written it after her first heartbreak, alone in her room. The words were clumsy and honest. She had forgotten it completely. She read the first line and her mouth remembered the tune. "That one," she said to the cat. "That's mine." The organizer called her name. Yanis stood. She had changed into her red dress before she lost her nerve, the one with layered ruffles that moved when she moved. It made her feel like someone who belonged under lights. She walked out. The lamp burned her eyes. Jimin looked up. She froze for one second. Two. The room went quiet and mean. Then she opened the diary on the stool and started to sing. Her voice cracked on the first word. She kept going. The song was small and true, and she meant every line. By the second verse her hands stopped shaking. She forgot the crowd. She sang the ending soft, almost to herself. The room clapped. Not polite claps. Loud ones. Yanis grinned and gripped her diary. Jimin stood up. He walked to the edge of the stage while people watched. He held out a small white card. "That song," he said. "Who wrote it?" "I did." "Come to my studio Monday. Bring more like that." He paused. "You have more, right?" Yanis nodded before she could think. She had one song. He wanted an album.