About a week had passed since Chéri had come to town. In that time, he had managed to gather enough money to buy himself some second-hand clothes, an anonymous brown three-piece suit, that tamed his gleaming beauty and made him less noticeable in town, get a place to stay and a client, although not at the Diamond Pony, that provided him with enough money to start again. Where and how were still in question.

Meanwhile, he was starting to get used to Whitby. He was a village boy and still felt like a village boy in many ways, to it was more of a reverting experience for him than anything else. There were, of course, a few things he missed, like theatre. Chéri wasn’t a melancholic type, but he had spent the last ten years of his life concentrating most of his energy towards dance and performance, he inevitably missed it, even just in a superficial form.
And that was when he heard it: not too distant, there was the sound of a guitar singing sweet notes he remembered from a former life. Like a sailor hearing a siren, Chéri sped up in the direction of the song.