Brenda warren is our host. This one is from a few weeks ago.
The stage was draped in velvet, deep crimson catching the dim light like old wine. A filmy curtain trembled at the roar of the waiting crowd, the hum of voices blending into the low jazz playing from unseen speakers.
Behind it, Lila stood still, every breath a moment balanced between fear and longing. Her dress clung to her in strips of shadow and silver, each one designed to reveal just enough. She ran her fingers along the microphone’s tips, feeling its cold touch ground her back in the present.
Once, long ago, she had stood on this same stage—before her name was forgotten, before silence had replaced applause. Tonight, she would take it back.
The lights dimmed. The curtain lifted.
Her voice rose soft at first, then strong, a river of melody pouring through the room. The saxophone wept in harmony, the drums whispered like thunder waiting to break. Every note was a confession, every lyric a promise that she still existed.
When the last chord faded, the crowd erupted. For a heartbeat, Lila stood motionless, wrapped again in velvet light. Then she smiled, knowing this moment would never be forgotten.
Therapy Bits 
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