Many years before Embra was born, her father, Angus Walter, was a student studying

abroad for a semester at the University of Edinburgh. He admired Edinburgh's castle and

cobblestone streets and was charmed by the cozy pubs where he and his classmates

enjoyed endless discussions over "hunners o' pints."

It was in one of these pubs that he first heard the word "Embra" spoken with a lyrical

Scottish accent, and was captivated by this simple word. When he asked a classmate,

he was surprised to learn that "Embra" was local slang for Edinburgh.

He recalled that word the moment his baby was born, delivered by his wife, Sally, who

smiled when he suggested they name their little girl Embra. To them, it had a soft, bright feel,

and oddly, it was unknown as a girl's name, or anyone's name, for that matter. And thus

begins little Embra's adventures.

Embra hated Scotland.

Well, she reckoned she would've liked the place a lot more if it wasn't for the yearly holiday's she'd be dragged on, where her father would spend a week in Edinburgh with her, telling stories about his semester abroad, the drunken discussions at every pub, the origin of her name. When she was little, she liked the attention, she liked feeling special, like all of Edinburgh had been named for her, and she was a princess with her own kingdom. Now, she was 19, and being dragged up and down the cobbled streets and pretending to laugh at all the jokes and anecdotes she'd heard before, sitting in pubs and coffee shops that as her father drank and ate more chips that she thought humanly possible for a man of 45 to eat.

By the time they got back to the hotel, Embra felt like her smile muscles had atrophied. Her father was still buzzing, still talking about the pub they’d visited that afternoon, “the one that wasn’t here when I studied here, but it’s got the same spirit, you know?”, and she nodded along, letting his words wash over her like static. She excused herself early, claiming jet lag. Angus didn’t question it; he was already halfway into reminiscing about a ceilidh he’d once stumbled into by accident.

In her room, Embra shut the door, leaned against it, and exhaled. The silence felt like oxygen. She kicked off her shoes, flopped onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling. Nineteen years of Edinburgh trips. Nineteen years of the same stories. Nineteen years of being named after a city she wasn’t sure she even liked.

Her phone buzzed.

A notification from Instagram: “TONIGHT ONLY — secret gig, The Caves. Doors at 10. Limited entry.”

She sat up.The Caves. She’d heard of it: a venue carved into the old stone vaults beneath the city. Nothing like the polite pubs her father dragged her to. She checked the time. 9:12 p.m. A grin tugged at her mouth. For once, Edinburgh could be hers. She changed quickly, pulling on black jeans, boots, a jacket that she had tried to put studs on last summer and now hung off the collar like droopy metal petals. She tied her hair up, grabbed her phone and a twenty-pound note, and slipped out of the room.

The hallway was quiet. The lobby staff barely glanced at her as she strode past, heart thudding with the thrill of doing something she absolutely wasn’t supposed to. Outside, the night air was cool and sharp, smelling faintly of rain and fried food. The city hummed with tourists, students, music leaking from doorways and trhe smell of rain radiating off the pavement. Edinburgh at night felt different. She was beginning to like it much, much more. She followed the directions on her phone, weaving through narrow closes and down steep steps until she reached an unmarked door with a bouncer standing beside it.

“You here for the gig?” he asked.

She nodded, trying to look like someone who did this sort of thing all the time.

He stamped her wrist and pushed the door open. Heat and sound spilled out, drums, bass, voices shouting over the music. The room glowed with red lights reflecting off the walls as people danced and laughed, pressing closer together in the cool stone cavern. It was chaotic and alive and nothing like the Edinburgh she’d been force-fed her whole life.

Maybe she didn’t hate Scotland. Maybe she just hated the version of it she’d been shown.

And as the band launched into a new song and the crowd surged forward, Embra stepped into the crush of bodies, letting the music swallow her whole. Tonight, she wasn’t Angus Walter’s daughter, walking anecdote, a novelty from his student years. Tonight, she was just Embra; whoever that turned out to be.