Years later, they would look back on that season as something like an album’s B-side—less polished, but where the true harmonies lived. The theatre remained, stubborn and warm, and the playlists multiplied. Their home filled with records and small repairs, with a drawer of burned CDs and another of handwritten setlists. They argued still, patched still, celebrated still—always returning to that single rule they’d once scribbled on the binder’s inside cover: Keep the scratches.
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