The theater was still buzzing when the last notes faded. The applause had been deafening, the chant of my name like thunder rolling through the rafters. Slowly, it ebbed enough for the judges to lean into their microphones again.
Brandy spoke first, her voice warm and amazed. "Adam, that was… breathtaking. Truly. But I have to ask you something." She tilted her head. "You said this was an original song. Did I hear that right?"
"Yes," I answered simply, holding the microphone steady in my small hands.
Her eyes widened. "So—you wrote this yourself?"
"Yes."
The audience stirred, a low ripple of disbelief and awe passing through them. Someone gasped aloud.
Piers leaned forward now, narrowing his eyes at me. "And in Italian, no less. Do you actually speak Italian, Adam?"
I nodded once. "Yes."
A murmur swept the room. Brandy leaned forward eagerly. "Can you… say something for us? Just so we know?"
I thought for a moment, then let the words flow out smoothly:
"La musica è l'anima che parla quando le parole non bastano."
The syllables rolled cleanly, every accent placed where it belonged.
Gasps erupted from the audience. A woman in the second row whispered to her neighbor, "He speaks it perfectly…" Another clutched her chest as if her heart had leapt.
Brandy's mouth fell open. "And what does that mean?"
I looked at her calmly. "It means: Music is the soul speaking when words are not enough."
The audience erupted in applause again, touched by the poetry of it. A man in the balcony stood and shouted, "Bravo!" as if he were at La Scala itself.
David Hasselhoff leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief before speaking into his mic. "Adam, you're telling us you wrote this opera piece yourself, at five years old, and you speak Italian fluently?"
"Yes," I repeated, my voice even.
Laughter of disbelief rippled through the crowd, mixed with applause. People couldn't process it—it was too much, too impossible—and yet they'd all just heard it.
Piers pinched the bridge of his nose like he couldn't believe what he was witnessing. Then he lowered his hand, his sharp gaze fixed on me. "Adam… this doesn't happen. Five-year-olds don't write arias in a foreign language and then perform them like seasoned professionals. You're not just talented, you're…" He exhaled. "You're something we've never seen before on this stage."
The audience roared in agreement, cheers echoing off the walls.
Brandy leaned closer again, smiling through her amazement. "Adam, do you realize how special you are? You're not only a singer—you're a prodigy. Do you know what that means?"
"Yes," I said, still calm.
"And what does it mean to you?" she pressed.
"That I am very good," I answered simply.
The crowd burst into laughter, delighted by the bluntness. Even the judges laughed with them, shaking their heads.
Brandy pressed her hand to her chest, visibly charmed. "You're more than 'very good,' sweetheart. You're one of a kind."
The chant began again, swelling up from the seats like a tide.
"A-dam! A-dam! A-dam!"
It rattled the rafters, pulsed through the floorboards, and filled the space with a feverish energy that refused to die down.
Brandy glanced left, then right at her fellow judges, her mouth curving into a grin she couldn't hide. She picked up her microphone. "Alright, let's see if we can get a word in here."
The chant dimmed reluctantly, replaced by clapping and scattered cheers.
She leaned forward, eyes fixed on me. "Adam… you are extraordinary. I don't even know if that word is big enough for what you just did. You sang in Italian, at five years old, with a voice that doesn't even sound possible—and then you told us it was your own original work." She shook her head, still in disbelief. "There is only one word I can give you."
Her hand slammed the button. A golden "YES" lit up on her screen.
The audience exploded again, screaming, whistling, stamping their feet.
David Hasselhoff laughed aloud, throwing his head back before leaning into his mic. "I've been saying it since the first note—you're a star, Adam. You're not just good, you're… frighteningly good. That voice, that composure… I'd put you on stage tomorrow with the best of the best, and you'd hold your own." He pointed toward me. "From me, it's a YES."
Another wave of cheering rolled through the theater.
A man in the front row cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "That's my boy!" though he had never seen me before tonight.
Piers Morgan rested his chin in his hand for a moment, studying me with narrowed eyes. The audience quieted slightly, sensing tension. Piers had been skeptical from the start, and they waited to see what he would say now.
Finally, he leaned toward his microphone. "Adam. I'll be honest with you—I didn't believe it when you said this was original. I didn't believe you could speak Italian. I didn't believe… any of it." He paused, letting the silence hang. "But then I watched you, I listened, and I realized—this isn't a trick. This isn't a gimmick. This is real."
He pointed at me with the edge of his pen. "And if you keep going like this, you could very well win this entire competition. It's a YES from me."
The crowd leapt to their feet again, screaming. Three yeses.
The host grinned broadly, stepping into the frame. "That's three yeses, Adam—you're going through to the next round!"
The camera panned back to the audience, capturing the jubilation.
In the third row, a young boy sat stunned, his half-eaten popcorn forgotten in his lap. His mother bent down and whispered, "See? That's what talent looks like."
In the balcony, a man wiped at his eyes furiously, embarrassed to be crying in public, but unable to stop himself.
Back at the judges' table, Brandy leaned into her mic again. "Adam, you are a gift. Truly. Thank you for sharing this with us."
The chant started up again, softer this time but still insistent:
"A-dam! A-dam!"
I gave a small nod, expression calm and steady, the microphone still in my hand.
The lights bathed me in gold.