The bar smells of old wood, cigarette smoke trapped in the walls, and cheap whiskey. The lights are low, always low, like the place is afraid of being seen in daylight. Every night, I step onto the small stage with the same microphone, the same worn piano behind me, and the same faces looking back. They call me their little star. There’s Mr. Collins at the counter, who always taps his glass in rhythm before I even start. The couple in the corner booth who never talks, just listens.