The crowd hummed with anticipation, a low murmur of disbelief and excitement. Ten years was a long time to disappear. Too long, some would say.

Backstage, Lyra Chase adjusted her mic, rolling her shoulders. Breathe. Don’t overthink it.

“Ready?” her manager asked.

She smirked. “Been ready.”

The lights dimmed. The stage pulsed with the opening beat—her beat. The same rhythm that once ruled the charts before the industry swallowed her whole. Before the contracts, the drama, the silence.

Lyra stepped forward, and the arena erupted.

Guess they didn’t forget me after all.

She hit the first note, her voice sharper, richer, more seasoned. Every lyric, every drop of attitude, dripped with experience. She wasn’t the teenage sensation they remembered. She was something better.

By the time the chorus hit, the crowd was chanting her name, fists in the air, phone screens glowing like a galaxy of second chances.

Lyra grinned. They call it a comeback, but I never really left.