Trace Cyrus stared at the text on his phone, the group chat between his sisters lighting up with worried messages. Miley had sent a voice memo, her tone a mix of frustration and concern. “He’s just… I don’t know, Trace. He’s not himself. This Liberty Ball thing? What’s he doing? Why does he even need to be there?”

Noah chimed in next. “He’s been different since the divorce. Distant. Like… too focused on being relevant again.”

Trace sighed and leaned back against the worn leather couch in his Nashville apartment. A guitar leaned against the wall, untouched for weeks. The music didn’t come easy these days, not with all this hanging over him. He typed a reply, deleting it twice before settling on, “I’ll talk to him.”

He didn’t want to talk to him.

But the next morning, Trace drove out to his dad’s place anyway. The sprawling ranch was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy. Billy Ray was on the porch, strumming his guitar. His face lit up when he saw Trace, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey, son. Didn’t know you were comin’ by,” Billy said, setting the guitar aside.

Trace sat on the porch steps, looking out at the fields. “Had some time. Thought I’d check in.”

Billy leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “What’s on your mind?”

Trace hesitated, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “Miley and Noah are worried about you. Hell, I’m worried about you. You’ve been throwing yourself into all this… stuff. The performances, the appearances. It’s like you’re running from something.”

Billy didn’t respond right away. He looked out at the horizon, his jaw tight. “You think I’m running?”

“I think you’ve been through a lot,” Trace said carefully. “And instead of dealing with it, you’re trying to keep busy. Stay relevant. But, Dad… we don’t care about any of that. We just want you.”

Billy sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. “You think I don’t know that? I see it in your eyes. In Miley’s. In Noah’s. But y’all don’t get it. The spotlight… it’s a hell of a thing. It’s warm, but it burns. And when it’s gone, all you’ve got is the cold.”

“You’ve got us,” Trace said, his voice firmer now. “We’re not the spotlight, but we’re here. And we’re not going anywhere.”

Billy’s shoulders sagged, the weight of years finally catching up to him. “I just… don’t wanna let you down.”

“You won’t,” Trace said, standing and placing a hand on his father’s shoulder. “But you’ve gotta let us in. Let us help you.”

Billy nodded slowly, his fingers absently plucking at the air like they missed the guitar strings. “Alright. I’ll try.”

For the first time in months, Trace saw something in his dad’s eyes that looked like hope. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.