As the evening progressed, a younger woman named Maya approached their table, looking hesitant. "I’ve seen your pictures on the wall," Maya said softly. "I just wanted to say thank you. For staying."

The GP was more than a bar; it was a living archive. On the walls hung framed photos of their youth—black and white shots of protests, backstage mirrors, and beach days where they looked like sirens in high-waisted swimsuits. They had survived eras of silence and eras of noise, carving out a sisterhood that felt as sturdy as the mahogany bar.

Elena chuckled. "I had plenty of sequins. The doubt was just for flavor."

"Remember the first time we walked in here?" Simone asked, stirring an old-fashioned. "1984. You wore that sequins-and-doubt look."