Inside the arena, the air was thick with the scent of perfume, champagne, and a low-grade, collective anxiety. The Staples Center had been transformed into a glittering, cavernous cathedral of fame, the stage a high altar bathed in spotlights. From their table near the front, Alex, Billie, and Finneas were a small, self-contained solar system, their quiet gravity a stark contrast to the frenetic orbits of the industry veterans and pop superstars schmoozing around them. Alex felt a strange, dual-channel awareness: the sixteen-year-old boy was overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it all, the surreal proximity to faces he'd only ever seen on screens; the ghost, meanwhile, was cataloging, analyzing, and remaining unimpressed. It was just another room, with better lighting.
The award for Best New Artist was one of the first of the night, a strategic move by the producers to hook the younger viewers early. As the video package of nominees played on the massive screens, a montage of their faces and accomplishments, Alex's heart began to pound against his ribs, a frantic, teenage rhythm that the ghost's composure couldn't entirely suppress. He kept his hands folded on the white tablecloth, his expression neutral, but inside, a nervous energy was coiling tight.
The presenter, a legendary rock musician whose work the ghost deeply respected, opened the envelope. The camera cut to a tight shot of Alex's face. He was prepared for the polite, practiced smile of a gracious loser.
"And the Grammy goes to… Alex Vance."
For a split second, the name didn't register. It was just a sound, a familiar arrangement of syllables. Then the table erupted. A genuine wave of shock, so pure and unadulterated it felt like a physical blow, hit him. Finneas let out a whoop of unrestrained joy, clapping him hard on the back. Billie screamed, a sharp, happy sound, and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. Her embrace was a grounding force, pulling him back into the reality of the moment. This was real. This was happening.
He stood, his movements feeling slow and disconnected, like he was moving through water. He hugged Billie and Finneas back, then began the long, lonely walk to the stage. The applause was a distant roar, the faces in the crowd a blur of light and color. He shook the presenter's hand, accepted the golden gramophone—heavier than he expected—and stepped up to the microphone. The blinding white light he remembered from the AMAs was back, erasing the world.
The ghost's prepared speech was gone. The boy spoke instead.
"Uh… wow," he began, his voice a little shaky. "I… I really wasn't expecting this. Thank you. Thank you to the Recording Academy, to my parents for letting me make a lot of noise in their house." He paused, his eyes finding his table in the darkness. He could just make out Billie and Finneas, watching him. "And to my partners at Echo Chamber, the architects of this whole thing. We're just getting started." He took a breath, the moment solidifying, the real reason for all of this coming into sharp focus. He ended with a simple, quiet dedication, his voice dropping slightly. "This is for Leo."
He walked off stage, the applause following him back to the table. He sat down, placing the gramophone in the center of the table. It looked absurd next to the water glasses and bread rolls. Billie squeezed his hand under the table, her own eyes shining. It was done. He had survived the first one.
The award for Best Pop Solo Performance came about an hour later. This time, the shock was less acute, replaced by a low thrum of nervous anticipation. When his name was called again, the feeling was less one of surprise and more one of a strange, surreal inevitability. As he walked back to the stage, the camera cut to his competitors, seasoned pop stars who were all graciously, professionally applauding. The ghost was more present this time, guiding his steps, keeping him steady.
This speech was even more concise, a quiet statement of purpose. He thanked the voters again. "A song is just a blueprint," he said, his voice calm and steady, the words carefully chosen. "Thank you to everyone who helped me build this one. Especially Billie and Finneas O'Connell." He gave a small, formal nod to the audience, the gramophone held loosely in his hand. "For Leo Martinez."
Two awards. It was already more than he, or the ghost, had ever imagined. He returned to the table and placed the second gramophone next to the first. They looked like strange, golden bookends to a story he was still in the middle of writing.
The night wore on, a blur of performances, speeches, and polite table conversation. Alex felt a growing tension in the air as they neared the end of the broadcast. The final major award was Song of the Year, the highest honor for a songwriter. The nomination itself had been a shock. A win seemed impossible. The other nominees were industry titans, living legends, writers of songs that had become part of the cultural fabric. And then there was his, a quiet, mournful song written on the floor of a dark bedroom.
The video package played, showcasing the monumental hits he was up against. The tension at their table was immense. Billie had her hand on his arm, her fingers gripping his sleeve tightly. Finneas was leaning forward, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the stage.
The presenter, a pop icon whose music the ghost secretly admired, opened the final envelope. The arena was dead silent.
"And the Grammy for Song of the Year goes to… 'Before You Go,' Alex Vance."
The room didn't just applaud; it erupted. A tidal wave of sound crashed over their table. This time, the shock was real and overwhelming, a system overload that short-circuited every defense mechanism Alex had. Billie screamed, a raw, disbelieving sound of pure joy, grabbing his arm with both hands. Finneas just stared at the stage, his mouth hanging open, utterly speechless. Alex felt his own mind go completely, blessedly blank.
The walk to the stage this time felt different. Longer. Slower. The weight of what this award meant, what it represented, settled on him with each step. This wasn't for being new. This wasn't for a performance. This was for the words. For the melody. For the raw, broken heart of the song itself. He passed legendary artists, faces from his parents' record collection, who nodded at him with a quiet, profound respect. This was the moment the ghost had dreamed of in its own failed timeline and the boy had never dared to imagine in his wildest fantasies.
He stood at the podium for the third time, the heavy, golden gramophone a familiar weight in his hand now. He looked out at the sea of faces, and this time, he could see them. The lights didn't seem so blinding. The room was utterly silent, waiting.
He took a deep breath. He didn't thank the Academy. He didn't thank his team. He started somewhere else entirely.
"A song can't save a life," he said, his voice quiet but clear, each word perfectly articulated, commanding the absolute attention of the entire arena. "I know that now. But it can bear witness. It can sit with you in the dark when you're alone. It can make the silence a little less lonely."
He paused, letting the truth of the statement settle over the room.
"This song was born from a very dark and lonely silence. I wrote it for my best friend, who I lost last year." His voice remained steady, controlled, imbued with a profound gravity. There were no tears this time. There was only a terrible, beautiful clarity. "His name was Leo Martinez. He was the first person who ever believed in my music, and his belief is the reason I'm standing here tonight."
He held up the award, the golden horn catching the light.
"So, this isn't for the billion streams, or for the charts, or for me. This is his. This is for Leo."
He didn't say anything else. He just nodded once, a gesture of finality, and walked off the stage.
He was met not with wild cheering, but with a powerful, respectful standing ovation. People were on their feet, their applause a steady, rolling wave of acknowledgment. Back at the table, he saw Billie, her face streaked with tears, but she was beaming, a look of immense, heartbreaking pride on her face. Finneas was finally able to speak, just shaking his head back and forth, muttering, "Oh my God," over and over again.
Alex sat down, carefully placing the third gramophone on the table beside the other two. They formed a small, glittering constellation of success. He didn't look at them. He just looked at his friends, the roaring noise of the room fading into a distant hum, feeling the quiet, heavy, and deeply satisfying feeling of a promise kept.