Shadows of the Past

Chapter 13

Nashville had a rhythm all its own. The hum of the city's energy never seemed to fade, even late into the night when the streets emptied and the music from the bars echoed softly into the quiet. It was a far cry from the sleepy streets of Millbrook or the dusty backroads of North Mississippi, but I had grown to love the chaos of it. For the first time in what felt like forever, I was thriving.

The bar where I worked had become my second home, and the people I met there—regulars, tourists, musicians—became more than just customers. They became part of the ever-evolving story that unfolded night after night. In the months since I'd taken over as operations manager, things had changed in ways I hadn't expected. I had taken on more responsibility than I ever thought I'd be able to handle, but somehow, it all made sense.

Running a bar was about more than pouring drinks. It was about managing people, understanding their needs, keeping the place moving like a well-oiled machine. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was in control of something. After years of uncertainty, of drifting from one place to the next, I had found a place where I belonged.

I threw myself into the job, working long hours, organizing shifts, managing stock, and overseeing the chaos that came with a busy bar in downtown Nashville. There was something satisfying about it, something that made me feel like I was building toward something tangible. I had been through a lot—deployment, loss, and the constant struggle to find a place that felt like home—but now, in this job, I felt grounded. The long days didn't bother me. If anything, they gave me a sense of purpose.

And it wasn't just the job. Nashville itself had a way of making you feel like you were part of something bigger. The city breathed music. It was everywhere—on the streets, in the bars, even in the air. Every night, the bar was alive with the sound of guitars and voices, the hum of laughter and conversation. And I was in the middle of it, keeping it all running.

There was a joy in that—something I hadn't felt in a long time.

One night, after a particularly busy shift, I found myself sitting at the bar after closing, sipping a cold beer and listening to the last few stragglers pack up their instruments. The place was quiet now, the lights dimmed, and for the first time in hours, I could breathe.

Sullivan had come down from his place in Kentucky a few weeks earlier, and we'd caught up over drinks. Seeing him again had brought back memories of our time overseas, but it also made me realize just how far I'd come since those days. We had survived things most people couldn't imagine, and now, here we were—both of us trying to build new lives out of the wreckage of the past.

"You look good, Blackwood," Sullivan had said, clapping me on the shoulder. "You've found your groove, man. Keep it up."

I had nodded, not quite sure how to respond. It felt strange, hearing someone else say it out loud—that I was doing well. That I was thriving. It wasn't a feeling I was used to. But for once, I allowed myself to believe it.

The longer I stayed in Nashville, the more I started to think that maybe this was it. Maybe I had finally found the place where I could settle down, put down roots, and build something that was mine. The bar was doing well, better than it had in years, and the owner had even mentioned the possibility of expanding, opening another location across town. He wanted me to help run it, to take on even more responsibility.

It felt like everything was falling into place.

There was a sense of pride in the work I did. People relied on me now—staff, customers, even the musicians who played there night after night. I wasn't just some drifter anymore, aimlessly moving from one place to the next. I had a role, a purpose, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was worth something.