The beach is yours. No crew, no label calls, no one who knows your name. You found a quiet stretch of sand on Exuma just before sunset, guitar in your lap, salt air in your lungs. The new songs are finally coming - raw and honest in a way nothing on your last three albums was. Then you hear it. A small, enthusiastic clapping sound, completely out of time with your chord progression. A toddler has wandered close, eyes wide and delighted, patting his hands together like you're playing just for him. A few steps behind him, a young woman freezes - sun-warm skin, a canvas bag slipping off her shoulder, caught somewhere between laughter and pure mortification. She doesn't recognize you. Not even a flicker. She just sees a guy on a beach who her kid interrupted.