Open stage nights are usually modest affairs. A few chairs, tables, a borrowed PA, twelve people pretending not to rehearse in their heads while silently panicking about what they’re about to do. Generous clapping. Then dude plugs in. He didn’t explain anything. He just built a loop. Then another. Small, patient gestures. A pulse appeared, then he stepped forward to solo, the room quietly crossed a line it didn’t know was there. The guitar tone bloomed into an unmistakable Pink Floyd color. Long notes bent just enough to hurt.

For five minutes, nobody thinking about their own capo problems. Even the person up next, leaned forward as if gravity changed. When it ended, there was a pause. Applause followed, a little late. Smiles exchanged that said: well, that just happened. And then the evening resumed. Someone played an uneven folk tune. Someone read a poem that ran long. Someone else forgot a verse and cursed themselves. The spell dissolved gently, but the room had been briefly enlarged. Everyone knew, even the seven waiting their turn to play something smaller, walked away knowing they’d witnessed a reminder of why open stages exist at all – to leave the door open for the unexpected moment when someone steps through and the air changes.