On Tuesdays and Thursdays the Catweasel Club held open acoustic performances. Drop by on the previous day, sign the form, and the following evening you'd have a slot – between ten and twenty minutes – in which to play whatever you wished. Ability varied from the raw beginner to the beloved professional. It rarely received visitors from Canterlot High, despite being less than a half hour walk away.

All of this meant Sunset had found it a great place to perform while she was learning to play guitar – as a break from clawing her way to the top of the social ladder – but since her reformation, she had stopped visiting. The place held too many bad associations – which, she had to admit, were all her own fault and nothing to do with the club.

She would not have entered this Tuesday, either. Except, as she was walking past, she thought she heard a familiar voice. After some indecision, she slunk inside to confirm what she'd heard:

On the other side of the crowd, bearing a big acoustic guitar with what looked like seahorse stickers decorating its soundbox, sat Adagio.

Anyone who had not spent as long as Sunset looking into her eyes and studying her face would have struggled to recognise her.

Straightened hair – still striking because of its length. Muted, sensible clothes. Flat heels. No makeup beyond eyeliner.

Her voice was ropey – sometimes she struggled to hit the right notes or get a clear timbre. Sometimes she fumbled with the guitar. But she was performing. And she was wringing every drop of emotion from the melancholic, downbeat song she was singing.

She was so absorbed in it that she didn't notice Sunset.

Which was how it would stay: Sunset retreated behind the crowds, out of sight. She stayed long enough to hear the end of the set, the applause that came with it, and Adagio thanking the crowd.

Then, with a lump in her throat, she slipped out the door and headed home.