The Californian sun, a stark contrast to the Dublin drizzle Liam O'Connell remembered so vividly, beat down on Ethan Bellweather's face as he scrolled through his phone. He sat on a park bench overlooking the sprawling cityscape of Los Angeles, the hazy mountains painting a backdrop to the urban tapestry below. He was, by all accounts, Ethan Bellweather, a twenty-something Californian orphan with a burning desire to make music. Yet, beneath the surface, the echoes of Liam O'Connell resonated, a phantom limb aching for a life that was no more.

He closed his eyes, trying to conjure the images. The flickering candlelight illuminating Maggie Murphy’s wrinkled face as she told stories of her youth, Patrick’s booming laughter that shook the very foundation of their small Dublin flat, Eileen's gentle humming as she knitted intricate scarves. Their unwavering belief in him, their insistence that he possessed a spark that needed only to be ignited, was the fuel that powered this new life.

He opened his eyes, the sun glinting off the chrome of passing cars. The “Echo” system, still a mystery, thrummed faintly beneath his skin, a constant reminder of his past. It offered fragmented glimpses, sudden bursts of memory, and inexplicable surges of emotion. At times, it felt like a guide, whispering encouragement, offering him an uncanny understanding of music theory or songwriting techniques he couldn't possibly have learned in this lifetime.

"Right," he muttered to himself, the Californian twang of his voice feeling foreign even to his own ears. "Time to stop moping and start *doing*."

The Murphys wouldn't want him wallowing in self-doubt. They’d want him to sing. To *shine*.

He had spent the last few weeks since fully understanding his new existence trying to piece together the fragments of Liam's life, intertwining them with the experiences of Ethan. He frequented local music venues, soaking in the vibrant LA scene, finding inspiration in the eclectic mix of genres and artists. He practiced his guitar, a battered acoustic he’d found in a pawn shop, the strings worn but capable of producing a surprisingly resonant sound. He sang in the shower, in his car, even to the bewildered squirrels in his backyard.

He was getting there. Slowly, painstakingly, but getting there.

The Echo system had nudged him towards pursuing music, but it was the burning ember of Liam's, and now Ethan's, dormant dream that truly compelled him. He’d always wanted to sing, to write songs that moved people, to create melodies that lingered in their hearts. But Liam's life had been consumed by responsibility, by the unrelenting demands of caring for his mother. There had been no time for dreams, only the stark reality of survival.

Now, he had a second chance. A clean slate.

He ran a hand through his sun-streaked hair, a nervous habit. He needed a platform, a way to showcase his talent, to reach a wider audience. He’d considered open mic nights, but the thought of performing in dingy bars filled with indifferent patrons felt… limiting. He needed something bigger, something that could truly launch his career.

That's when he remembered the television ad that had been relentlessly playing on every channel he watched: *American Anthem*.

The singing reality show was a cultural phenomenon, a breeding ground for aspiring pop stars. It was flashy, commercial, and undeniably cutthroat, but it offered unprecedented exposure. Millions of viewers tuned in each week to watch contestants battle it out, vying for the coveted title of "American Anthem."

Liam, in his Dublin life, would have scoffed at the idea. It felt… shallow, manufactured. But Ethan, fueled by the Murphys' unwavering belief and the inexplicable power of the Echo system, saw it as an opportunity. A necessary evil, perhaps, but an opportunity nonetheless.

He’d watched snippets of the show, scrutinizing the performances, analyzing the judges’ comments. The competition was fierce. The contestants were polished, professional, and hungry for fame. He wasn't sure he could compete with that.

But the Murphys' faces flashed in his mind. Maggie's knowing smile, Patrick's encouraging wink, Eileen's gentle nod. They wouldn't want him to back down. They’d want him to take a chance.

He scrolled through the *American Anthem* website, his heart pounding in his chest. Auditions were being held next week at the Paramount Studios in Hollywood. He could almost feel the weight of history, the ghosts of countless actors and musicians who had walked those hallowed halls.

He hesitated, his finger hovering over the "Apply Now" button. Doubt gnawed at him. He was just Ethan Bellweather, a Californian orphan with a past he barely understood. What made him think he could compete with the best singers in the country?

The Echo system pulsed. A memory surfaced, clear and vivid: Liam, standing in the Murphy's small living room, his voice trembling as he sang an old Irish ballad. Maggie, her eyes filled with tears, clapping softly. Patrick, his face beaming with pride. Eileen, humming along in perfect harmony.

"You have a gift, Liam," Maggie had said, her voice raspy with age. "Don't let it go to waste."

Ethan’s breath caught in his throat. He wasn't Liam anymore, but the gift, the spark, remained.

He clicked the "Apply Now" button.

The application process was surprisingly straightforward. He filled out the online form, detailing his musical experience (which, technically, was limited to singing in the shower and strumming a pawn shop guitar), his influences (a bizarre mix of Irish folk music and American rock), and his aspirations (to make music that mattered, to connect with people through song).

He then uploaded a video of himself performing a cover of "Hallelujah," Leonard Cohen's haunting masterpiece. It wasn’t perfect. His voice cracked in a few places, and his guitar playing was a little shaky. But it was raw, honest, and filled with an emotion he couldn't quite explain.

He hit submit, his hands trembling. There was no going back now.

The next few days were an agonizing blur of anticipation and anxiety. He practiced relentlessly, his fingers bleeding on the guitar strings. He researched vocal techniques, studying YouTube tutorials and mimicking famous singers. He tried to channel the spirit of Liam O'Connell, drawing on the memories and emotions that surfaced through the Echo system.

Finally, the email arrived.

He held his breath as he clicked it open.

"Dear Ethan Bellweather," it began. "Thank you for your interest in *American Anthem*. We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for a preliminary audition…"

He let out a whoop of joy, leaping off the park bench and pumping his fist in the air. He had made it. He was one step closer to his dream.

The audition was scheduled for the following Monday. He had one week to prepare.

He spent the week in a frenzy of activity. He chose a song – a soulful rendition of Bill Withers’ "Ain’t No Sunshine" – that showcased his vocal range and emotional depth. He rehearsed it countless times, refining his phrasing, honing his delivery. He even splurged on a new outfit: a simple black t-shirt, ripped jeans, and a pair of worn leather boots. He wanted to look authentic, relatable, like the struggling musician he was.

Monday morning arrived, bright and early. He drove to the Paramount Studios, his stomach churning with nerves. The parking lot was a chaotic mix of cars, vans, and limousines. Aspiring singers milled around, their faces a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

He joined the throng, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt out of place, intimidated by the polished looks and confident demeanors of the other contestants. He saw girls in designer dresses, boys in tailored suits, all seemingly more prepared, more talented, more deserving than him.

He waited in line for hours, the tension mounting with each passing minute. He practiced his song in his head, trying to block out the distractions. He closed his eyes and pictured the Murphys, their faces smiling, their voices encouraging.

Finally, his name was called.

He walked into the audition room, his legs trembling. The room was small and sterile, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights. Three judges sat behind a long table, their faces impassive.

He introduced himself, his voice barely a whisper.

"Ethan Bellweather," he said, his Californian accent betraying his nervousness. "I'll be singing 'Ain't No Sunshine' by Bill Withers."

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to sing.

As the first notes escaped his lips, something shifted. The nerves dissipated, replaced by a surge of confidence. He poured his heart and soul into the song, channeling the pain, the longing, the hope that resonated within him. He sang for Liam O'Connell, for the Murphys, for everyone who had ever dared to dream.

When he finished, the room was silent. He opened his eyes, his heart pounding. The judges exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable.

The silence stretched on, agonizingly long.

Finally, one of the judges, a stern-faced woman with sharp eyes, spoke.

"That was… interesting," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "You have a unique voice. Raw. Untrained. But… interesting."

Another judge, a young man with a trendy haircut, nodded in agreement.

"I like the raspiness," he said. "You've got a lot of potential. But you need to work on your pitch. And your stage presence."

The third judge, a legendary singer with a warm smile, leaned forward.

"I felt that," she said, her voice gentle. "You have a story to tell. And you tell it beautifully."

She paused, her eyes locking with his.

"We're going to give you a shot, Ethan," she said. "Welcome to *American Anthem*."

Ethan Bellweather had made it through. A new chapter had begun.