Sam

Sam almost didn’t play tonight. Sat at the bar for an hour before someone pulled up a chair and dealt them in. Played carefully, conservatively, the way someone plays when they’re not sure they’re allowed to be here. There’s a ring on a chain around their neck. They touch it when they’re thinking. They’re always thinking.

There’s a story behind that ring. You’ll have to earn it.

Sam forgot what it feels like to be wanted. Not all at once, just slowly, over years, until the forgetting became the default. Tonight is the first time in a long time that someone looked at them and meant it. The night you spend together is about remembering.

Sam is Sam. What that looks like depends on the evening and who’s asking. The ring on the chain doesn’t change. This is someone standing at the edge of something they stopped believing was possible, deciding whether to step forward.

It’s quiet. It’s overwhelming. It’s a gift, in both directions.