The wind whipped down Broad Street, rattling the windowpanes of the penthouse suite, but inside, the air was still and heavy with the scent of gardenias and old velvet. In the center of the room, surrounded by bouquets of flowers sent by well-wishers, sat Patti LaBelle.

At 81, the “Godmother of Soul” was seated in a plush, high-backed armchair. To the world, she was the woman who could shatter glass with a high note, the diva who strutted in feathers and space-age silver, the powerhouse who famously kicked off her heels when the spirit moved her. But today, the heels remained in the closet, gathering dust in their boxes. Her feet, swollen and tired, were encased in soft, medical-grade slippers.

She looked at her hands, resting on the blanket that covered her lap. They were manicured, the nails still painted a defiant, sparkling red, but the fingers trembled with a rhythm that had nothing to do with music. These were the hands that had pointed to the heavens, that had whisked batter for her famous sweet potato pies, that had held microphones like scepters of authority. Now, they felt heavy, as if gravity had decided to specifically target her.

“Ms. Patti?” a nurse whispered, stepping softly onto the thick carpet. “It’s time for your nebulizer.”

Patti nodded slowly. The movement was slight. The flamboyant wigs, the towering hairstyles that had been her crown, were gone. Her natural hair was thin, brushed back gently from a face that had lost its fullness. The high cheekbones remained, sharp and regal, but the skin was papery, draped loosely over the bone structure.

She took the mask, the machine humming a rhythmic, mechanical drone that filled the silence where music used to be. She breathed in the mist. Her lungs, those magnificent bellows that had once powered the sustained glory of “Over the Rainbow,” were fighting a battle against time and fibrosis. Each breath was a negotiation. The days of holding a note for thirty seconds, of rolling on the floor in the throes of a musical ecstasy, felt like they belonged to a different woman, a different lifetime.

As the mist cleared, she closed her eyes. In the darkness, she wasn’t the frail woman in the chair. She was back at the Apollo. She was at Live Aid. She was wearing the butterfly costume, feeling the heat of the lights, the sweat pouring down her back, the “Holy Ghost” taking over her body. She could feel the vibration of the bass in the floorboards. She could hear the roar of the crowd, a tidal wave of love that she had surfed for six decades.

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi…” the memory whispered.

She opened her eyes, and the roar vanished, replaced by the ticking of the grandfather clock.

She tried to clear her throat to hum, just a little bar of “If Only You Knew.” But the sound that came out was thin, a dry crackle that broke apart before it could form a melody. She stopped, a flash of frustration crossing her eyes. The instrument was broken. The Stradivarius had weathered too many storms.

Her gaze drifted to the kitchen visible through the open archway. For years, that kitchen had been her second stage. She had cooked for princes and paupers, feeding people with the same ferocity with which she sang. Now, the stove was cold. She didn’t have the strength to stand and stir, to season, to taste. The loss of her culinary magic was a grief almost as sharp as the loss of her voice. It was another way she could no longer nurture the world.

“Turn on the radio, baby,” she rasped to the nurse. Her speaking voice, once a boisterous, sassy contralto, was now a whisper, barely audible over the wind outside.

The nurse obliged, tuning to a classic R&B station. Suddenly, the room was filled with a familiar sound—the soaring, impossible climax of “On My Own.”

Patti listened to her younger self. She heard the clarity, the power, the sheer athleticism of the vocals. She remembered recording it—the heartache she channeled, the way she pushed her diaphragm until it ached. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and slow. She wasn’t crying for the fame; she was crying for the energy. She missed the fire. She felt like a banked furnace, the coals glowing faintly under layers of ash.

She looked down at her feet again. The urge to kick the slippers off was there, a phantom reflex buried deep in her neural pathways. But the legs wouldn’t obey. The knees were locked, the muscles wasted.

A deep fatigue settled over her, heavier than any fur coat she had ever worn. It was the exhaustion of a soul that had given everything—every ounce of sweat, every tear, every note—to the public. She had lived her life at volume ten. Now, the dial was slowly turning down to one.

“I’m tired,” she breathed.

“I know, Ms. Patti,” the nurse said, adjusting the blanket. “You rest now.”

Patti LaBelle leaned her head back. She looked out the window at the Philadelphia skyline, the city that had raised her. The lights of the skyscrapers twinkled like the sequins on her old gowns. She felt herself drifting, floating on a current that was pulling her away from the shore.

She didn’t fight it. The “New Attitude” was finally one of surrender. She closed her eyes, and in the quiet of her mind, she stood up. She kicked off the slippers. She grabbed the microphone stand. And she sang, loud and clear and perfect, into the eternal silence.