The lights dimmed, and a familiar murmur washed across the audience like a restless tide. Camera cranes whirred overhead, catching every angle. The stage glowed with its clean, almost clinical spotlight, casting a thin path for him to walk.
Adam stepped into it, small against the vast stage but moving with a calmness that didn't belong to a child. His posture alone seemed to hush the chatter, like a room leaning forward to listen.
The judges smiled the way they always did when a child appeared—half encouraging, half skeptical.
"Welcome back," said one of them, leaning forward on her desk. "It's good to see you again."
Adam gave a polite nod, his expression unreadable but not cold. The kind of face that could belong to a boy just happy to be here, though the truth sat far deeper.
"Last time you gave us something very special," another judge said, smiling wider now. "An original Italian piece at your age? That's… unheard of."
The audience clapped lightly at the memory, a ripple of applause that filled the silence. Adam waited for it to fade before speaking.
"Yes," he said simply, his voice even.
"Yes," one judge chuckled. "Well, tonight, what do you have for us?"
Adam's lips curved faintly, just enough to be called a smile. "A song."
The audience laughed, warm but a little surprised. Even the judges chuckled. "That much we know," one teased. "Can you tell us which song?"
Adam tilted his head slightly. "It's another original. I wrote it myself."
That caught them. The same judge blinked. "You wrote another one? Already?"
"Yes."
"And what language is it in this time?"
"English."
The crowd stirred, whispers threading through rows. A child writing his own Italian opera piece was one thing. Claiming another original song—this time in English—pushed it further.
One of the judges leaned closer. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"
Adam didn't answer. He only looked at them with a calm certainty, as though the idea that this should be unusual hadn't even occurred to him.
Another judge tapped his pen against the desk. "Tell us something. How do you… come up with these songs? Do you write them down, do you hear them in your head—what's your process?"
Adam paused, then said, "I listen."
"Listen?"
He nodded. "The world has music already. You just have to hear it."
The answer sent another murmur through the room. A few audience members nodded, as though struck by how poetic it sounded. One of the judges tilted her head, trying to read more into him, but his face gave nothing away.
"Do you get nervous up here?" another judge asked, voice gentler now.
Adam considered that, then shook his head once. "No."
"Not even a little?"
He looked out at the sea of faces, at the lenses of cameras glinting red in the dark. "They came to listen. I came to sing. That's all."
The audience broke into applause again, this time stronger, touched by the calm confidence radiating from someone so young.
One of the judges laughed. "You're a very unusual boy, you know that?"
Adam tilted his head as if weighing whether the comment deserved an answer. Finally, he said, "People tell me that."
Another ripple of laughter, gentle and approving.
The first judge leaned in, eyes sparkling. "Alright then. What's the name of this original English song you'll be performing for us tonight?"
Adam let a beat pass before speaking, his voice smooth and steady.
"Fly Me to the Moon."
The words landed with a hush, like a stone dropped into still water. The audience fell quiet, drawn in. The judges exchanged glances, curiosity piqued.
"Fly Me to the Moon," the judge repeated slowly. "That's… quite a title."
"Yes."
"Do you want to tell us what it's about?"
Adam looked past them, into the shadows where the cameras drank him in. His voice was faint but clear when he answered.
"It's about wanting more than the world can hold."
A stillness settled over the room. The judges sat back, some thoughtful, some smiling in intrigue.
One lifted a hand. "Well, Adam… we can't wait to hear it."
The spotlight brightened, widening around him. A hush swept the audience as the orchestra tuned faintly in the background. Adam adjusted the microphone with small, precise fingers.
And then he stood still, ready.
The silence before the first note stretched long enough to make the crowd lean forward.
Curtain down.