He holds his phone up during the first minute of every set.
Small bar, live music, a habit he doesn't think about anymore.
The app catches the studio track hiding underneath the live one.
Later he adds it to a playlist and lets himself half believe he found it here.
It almost always works.
One night the trio stretches an old standard somewhere the recording never goes.
The drummer drops out.
The bassist picks up the melody and carries it alone for a while.
The app spins. No match found.
He holds it up again, closer, longer.
No match found.
He pockets the phone.
Four minutes left in the song and nothing to hold it against.
No studio version underneath telling him what it's supposed to sound like.
Just the bassist glancing at the drummer before a change.
Just the room going quieter, though no one asked it to.
He can't compare it. He can only follow it.
Afterward the bassist tells him the song doesn't have a name yet.
They've been playing with it a few weeks.
It's different every time they play it.
He starts carrying a small notebook now, not the phone.
Not for titles.
For what changed. The pause before the turn. The look before the key change.
Where a song title would normally go, he leaves the line blank.
Same instinct shows up with a moth in The Moth and the Flame, where getting closer wasn't the same thing as understanding.
