My mentor was Clara Ward of the famous Ward gospel singers of

Host: The recording studio was dim, lit only by the amber glow of hanging bulbs and the soft pulse of an on-air sign blinking in the corner. A vinyl record spun slowly on the turntable, releasing a low, crackling hum that filled the air with nostalgia. Outside, rain drizzled against the wide glass window, turning the city lights into streaks of gold and blue.

Jack sat at the piano, fingers hovering just above the keys, not pressing them — not yet. The instrument waited, like a sleeping beast. Jeeny stood behind him, her arms crossed, her hair tied back, watching the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. The microphone between them caught every breath, every silence.

It was late. It always was, when art tried to speak truth.

Jeeny: “Aretha once said, ‘My mentor was Clara Ward of the famous Ward Gospel Singers of Philadelphia. And my dad was my coach. He coached me. And just my natural love for music is what drove me.’”

Jack: “Yeah. I know that line. Everyone quotes it like gospel.”

Host: He pressed one key, a low note that hung in the air like smoke. The sound rippled through the small room, tender but heavy.

Jack: “She makes it sound simple — mentor, father, love. But nothing about music is simple.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But she wasn’t talking about simplicity. She was talking about roots.”

Jack: “Roots don’t make you sing, Jeeny. Practice does. Structure. Repetition. Music’s math, not magic.”

Host: His grey eyes caught the faint reflection of the piano lid, cold and metallic. Jeeny stepped closer, her voice low but charged.

Jeeny: “And yet every note that ever mattered came from love first — not math. Aretha’s voice wasn’t engineered. It bled from somewhere. Her gospel wasn’t just learned — it was lived.”

Jack: “Sure. But passion without discipline? That’s noise.”

Jeeny: “And discipline without love? That’s silence.”

Host: The rain outside began to beat harder, syncing with the rhythm of their tension. A flash of lightning cut across the studio window, catching Jack’s profile in sharp relief — jaw clenched, eyes distant.

Jack: “Her father was her coach, right? Maybe that’s why she made it. He pushed her. That’s what matters — guidance, not sentiment.”

Jeeny: “No. Guidance and grace. He coached her, but love drove her. That’s what she said — ‘My natural love for music is what drove me.’”

Jack: “Love doesn’t drive people, Jeeny. Obsession does.”

Jeeny: “You call it obsession because you’re afraid to call it faith.”

Host: Her words fell into the quiet, landing somewhere between challenge and tenderness. Jack’s hands hovered over the keys again, trembling slightly. He played a single chord — raw, unresolved — and let it fade.

Jack: “You really think love is enough to make someone great?”

Jeeny: “No. But without love, greatness means nothing.”

Host: Jeeny moved around the piano, her fingers brushing across the old wood like it was sacred. Her eyes caught the fading light, reflecting warmth against his cold steel.

Jeeny: “Look at Aretha. Clara Ward mentored her — showed her how to sing truth, not just notes. Her father coached her — not just her voice, but her spirit. It wasn’t about perfection, Jack. It was about purpose.”

Jack: “Purpose doesn’t feed you in this business. Skill does.”

Jeeny: “Then why do the best ones — the legends — always talk about soul? You ever notice that? Not technique. Not talent. Soul.”

Host: The word soul hung there — rich, heavy, echoing with something older than either of them. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance — the city’s own song, dissonant but alive.

Jack: “Soul’s overrated. You can’t measure it, can’t teach it. It’s an excuse people use when they can’t explain why they fail.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s what makes the difference between singing and saving.”

Host: He looked up at her then, the smallest flicker of curiosity breaking through his armor.

Jack: “Saving what?”

Jeeny: “Yourself. The audience. The world — just for a moment. That’s what Aretha did every time she opened her mouth.”

Jack: “She had a voice from God. That’s not something you can repeat.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the divine doesn’t come from nowhere. It comes from devotion. She trained, yes — but she believed. Her faith in the music was her technique.”

Host: The thunder rolled overhead, deep and slow. The studio lights flickered. Jack rose from the piano and walked toward the glass window that overlooked the control room. His reflection blurred in the glass — a man split between worlds.

Jack: “You ever wonder why some people make it and others don’t?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Jack: “Then you know it’s not just love. It’s timing. Industry. Ruthlessness.”

Jeeny: “And yet, none of those people are remembered. Not the ruthless ones. Not the calculated ones. It’s the ones who feel that last.”

Host: Jack said nothing. His hands flexed at his sides. For the first time, Jeeny could see it — the exhaustion in his shoulders, the unspoken envy of those who found peace in their chaos.

Jeeny: “You love it too, you know. Music. You act like it’s just craft, but I see it in your eyes every time you play.”

Jack: “Love doesn’t make me better.”

Jeeny: “It makes you human. That’s better than perfect.”

Host: The rain softened again, tapering into a rhythm almost like applause. Jack walked back to the piano and sat. His fingers hovered again, this time not trembling but ready.

Jack: “You really think I could play like her?”

Jeeny: “Not like her. Like you.”

Host: He exhaled, long and slow. Then he played. A few soft chords — hesitant, uncertain, then warmer, fuller. The sound filled the room — imperfect, human, alive.

Jeeny closed her eyes, swaying slightly, letting the notes pull her somewhere deep.

Jeeny: “There. That’s it. That’s what she meant. It’s not about taming it. It’s about trusting it.”

Jack: “Trusting what?”

Jeeny: “That what you love — truly love — won’t betray you. It’ll carry you.”

Host: The song built, not in volume but in meaning. The space around them shifted. The air thickened with memory — of old church pews, wooden floors, voices rising in harmony, and the trembling of something bigger than ambition.

Jack stopped playing. The last chord hung like a final heartbeat.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe love’s not the driver. Maybe it’s the destination.”

Jeeny: “And the road.”

Host: They smiled — small, tired, real. Outside, the rain had stopped. The city exhaled.

The microphone light still glowed red — recording everything, even their silence.

And in that silence, you could almost hear her — Aretha — her voice like thunder and mercy at once, whispering through the walls of the studio:

“Find your song. Then let it find you.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — slowly, deliberately — leaving them framed in the warmth of that tiny studio, surrounded by shadows, echoes, and light.

Because in that space — between the discipline of the father, the guidance of the mentor, and the fierce, untamable love of the music — both Jack and Jeeny finally understood:

You don’t learn the soul.

You listen for it.