Leo went home and picked up his four-string. He stopped looking at his fretboard as a grid of math and started seeing it as a path. He played a simple C-major, but this time, he didn't just hit the C. He leaned into a leading tone—a sharp B—creating a moment of delicious friction before resolving.
He closed his eyes, felt the wood against his chest, and finally started to walk.
Silas leaned his upright against the wall and looked at Leo’s hands. "You're probably thinking about scales. Forget scales for a second. Think about ."
The room suddenly felt bigger. The rhythm wasn't just keeping time anymore; it was moving the air. Leo realized that building a bass line wasn't about playing the most notes—it was about being the strongest link in the chain, the invisible force that turned a group of musicians into a band.
Silas didn't just play the bass; he anchored the room. While the saxophonist spiraled into frantic bebop, Silas stayed rooted, a rhythmic lighthouse.