The return to Los Angeles felt like déjà vu. The handlers, the waiting rooms, the cameras—it all mirrored the first time. The only difference was the faces. Some contestants were gone, replaced by new hopefuls. Others, like me, had been called back.
My mother walked beside me, carrying a tote bag with unnecessary snacks and bottled water. To anyone else, she looked alive—smiling, doting, anxious in the way stage parents always were. But in truth, she was dead, a lifeless marionette , animated by strings no one else could see.
We went through the motions together. Sign-in sheets. Briefings from producers. Herded into a waiting room with the other kids. A blur of sound and motion surrounded us: parents whispering encouragement, children practicing, staff shouting for order.
I sat quietly. My "mother" fussed with my hair, adjusting strands that didn't need adjusting.
Hours passed before my name was finally called.
The handlers led us down the familiar corridor toward the stage. My mother walked a few paces behind me, her smile serene, hands folded in front of her like she was praying.
Then the doors opened, and the light hit.
The stage stretched out in front of me again, blinding under its rigged lamps. The judges sat behind their long table, four silhouettes in the glare. The audience loomed beyond, hundreds of eyes watching.
I stepped into the center.
The host asked the usual questions. Name, age, what I planned to do.
"I'm Adam," I said evenly, holding the microphone. "I'm five years old. And today I'll be performing an original song."
The judges smiled, amused. One of them leaned forward, eyebrows raised. "An original? At five? That's… ambitious."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
The music began. A simple orchestral track, swelling softly in the background.
And I opened my mouth.
---
"Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!
Tu pure, o Principessa,
Nella tua fredda stanza,
Guardi le stelle
Che tremano d'amore,
E di speranza!"
---
The first notes cut through the air like a blade. Clear, strong, impossibly controlled for a child's voice.
The audience stilled. A woman in the third row, who had been whispering to her neighbor, froze mid-word. Her husband turned his head sharply, his eyes widening.
On stage, the judges exchanged looks.
---
"Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,
Il nome mio nessun saprà!
No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dirò
Quando la luce splenderà!"
---
A middle-aged man in the balcony gripped the armrest of his seat. The sound stirred something old in him—a night in Venice, thirty years ago, when he had proposed under the glow of lanterns to a woman who later left him. The memory hurt, but it was sweet, too. The boy's voice pulled it out of him, raw and unguarded.
Down in the stalls, a young girl of twelve clasped her hands together tightly. She had never heard opera before. She didn't understand the words. But the way they soared, the way they carried—her chest tightened, and for the first time in weeks, she forgot about the bullying at school. She only felt the swell of possibility.
---
"Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio
Che ti fa mia!"
---
One of the judges blinked rapidly, her lips parting. Tears rimmed her eyes before she realized it. She reached for a tissue discreetly, but the cameras caught her anyway.
Another judge leaned back in his chair, shaking his head with disbelief. He mouthed something—incredible—to the person beside him.
---
Backstage, the contestants and their families clustered around a monitor. The boy with the sparkly vest dropped his deck of cards without noticing. A dancer's mother, who had been dismissing every other act under her breath, covered her chest with both hands, whispering, "That voice… oh my god…"
A little boy, waiting with his father, stared wide-eyed at the screen. He whispered, "Daddy, how can he sing like that?" The father, unable to answer, just kept shaking his head.
---
"Dilegua, o notte!
Tramontate, stelle!
Tramontate, stelle!
All'alba vincerò!
Vincerò!
Vincerò!"
---
The climax roared through the auditorium, filling every corner with sound.
A woman in the back row covered her mouth with both hands. She had been widowed two years earlier. She hadn't cried at the funeral, hadn't cried in the months after. But now, as the boy's voice soared upward, her tears spilled freely. She didn't even know why. It felt like her husband was beside her again, whispering that everything would be alright.
Near the front, a young man in a leather jacket stood rooted to the spot. He had been skeptical, certain this was a gimmick. But the aria unlocked something buried—a memory of his mother singing lullabies in a language he didn't understand. She had died when he was eight. He had forgotten the sound of her voice, but in this moment it came rushing back so vividly that his knees nearly gave out.
On the judges' panel, Hasselhoff slapped the desk once, a sharp crack. His grin had been wiped away, replaced by something close to awe. Brandy dabbed openly at her cheeks now, giving up on hiding her tears. Even Piers, usually iron-faced, sat stiffly, his throat working as he tried and failed to mask the wetness in his eyes.
A man in uniform near the back—retired military by the look of him—rose halfway from his seat, trembling. The high note reminded him of survival, of seeing dawn after thinking he would never make it home. His shout of "Bravo!" tore free before he could stop it.
---
The orchestra faded. The last note hung in the air, vibrating against the walls, before dissolving into silence.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the hall erupted.
The applause was thunderous, rising in waves. People shot to their feet, clapping, cheering, shouting his name. The sound rolled over me, heavy and unrelenting.
One judge slammed his buzzer in excitement, laughing aloud. Another clapped so hard her rings rang against the wood of the desk. The woman who had been crying didn't bother to hide her tears anymore; she simply let them flow, smiling through them.
The audience rose, row by row, until nearly everyone was standing.
I stood calmly in the middle of the stage, holding the microphone with both hands.
The applause raged on.
And I simply waited, expression steady, until the noise began to ebb.