The Evergreen Singer

When I was a boy, my grandmother took me to the Blue Fern, a tucked-away supper club in the old part of our city. The walls were the color of dried blood, and the air smelled of smoke and stale beer. There was a band that played every Friday night—no name, just a group of old men with brass instruments and a singer they called La Señora. She wore a sequined gown that shimmered like a net of stars, and her voice was honey laced with rust. Every time we left, she would catch my eye and press her painted lips to her hand, then blow—a tiny kiss that felt like a secret.

Years passed. My grandmother’s hands became maps of veins, and her back bent like a willow. But La Señora never changed. Her hair stayed black as ink, her face smooth as a polished stone, even as the saxophonist’s fingers grew knotted with arthritis and the drummer’s beard turned snow-white. I began to ask questions. ‘Grandma, why does she never age?’ I’d say, tugging at her sleeve. She’d wave me off, muttering, ‘Oh, the light in here is poor, boy. You’re just remembering wrong.’ But I knew what I saw. One night, I counted the lines around her eyes—there were none. Not a single one.

I became obsessed. I’d sneak to the club on my own, sit in the back, watch her. She always seemed to know I was there, would smile a slow smile that made my skin prickle. One evening, I arrived early and found the band tuning up. The trumpeter, old Silas, caught my stare. ‘You’re the boy who watches her,’ he said, his voice like gravel. ‘Leave it be, son. Some things ain’t meant for looking.’ I asked him why. He just shook his head and blew a sour note. ‘She’s got a deal, that one. A long one.’

A few weeks later, my grandmother fell ill. I sat by her bed, and she gripped my hand with surprising strength. ‘The Blue Fern,’ she rasped. ‘Don’t go there no more.’ I asked why. She closed her eyes. ‘When I was young, that singer—she was already there. My own mother took me, and she was the same. I thought she was just a singer. But one night, I stayed after closing. I heard her singing to the empty tables. And the songs… they were for the dead.’ My grandmother’s voice broke. ‘She keeps them alive, boy. But she feeds on their time.’

I didn’t listen. That Friday, I went back. The club was quiet, almost empty. La Señora sat alone at a table, a glass of red wine in front of her. She looked up and smiled, and her teeth were like pearls. ‘You’ve come back,’ she said. Her voice was the same as ever. ‘You feel it, don’t you? The pull.’ I nodded, unable to speak. She gestured to the chair across from her. ‘Sit. I’ll tell you a story. A long one. And when it’s done, you’ll understand.’

I sat. She began to speak, her voice weaving a tale of an old world, of a woman who loved a man doomed to die, who made a bargain with something ancient and patient. ‘He never died,’ she said. ‘I gave him my years, and he gave me his song. We’ve been here ever since, him in the piano, me singing to keep him bound.’ She pointed to the old upright piano where the pianist was stroking keys, his face a mask of concentration. ‘He’s my love. But the price… the price is the years I take from others. Not their lives—just the time they’d have in old age. I take their future, they give me their past.’

I felt a cold dread pool in my stomach. ‘Me?’ I whispered. She shrugged one elegant shoulder. ‘You’ve been coming since you were a boy. Your grandmother’s time—and yours—were part of the price for my staying young. But you come willingly, out of love for the music. That’s the best kind.’ She leaned forward, her eyes dark as river stones. ‘But now you know. What will you do?’

I wanted to run, but my feet felt rooted to the floor. The band began to play a slow, mournful tune. La Señora stood and walked to the microphone. She looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something like pity in her face. ‘This song is for those who linger,’ she said. ‘And for those who must leave.’ As she sang, I felt a strange warmth, as if years were flowing out of me and into her. My hands felt heavier. I looked down—they were lined, wrinkled, old. I tried to stand, but my joints ached. I saw my reflection in the darkened window: a man in his fifties, not a boy.

The song ended. La Señora smiled, and this time her smile was tired, almost kind. ‘You were the last one who came with love,’ she said. ‘Now go. Live the time you have left. And never touch the music again.’

I stumbled out into the night, my body weak. I never saw the Blue Fern again. I moved far away, but I still hear that melody in my dreams. And sometimes, when I pass a window with a singer, I catch a glimpse of a familiar sequined gown, and a voice that never ages—and I know that somewhere, in that club, the music is still playing, and the woman is still singing, taking her time from anyone who dares to listen.