Date: Tuesday, October 1, 2020
Leo's POV
I wake slowly. The quiet hits first, thick and steady, the kind that wraps around my ribs and settles in my chest like a warm stone.
My hand reaches instinctively for the small case on the crate I use as a nightstand. I pause, then tuck it into the pocket of my coveralls without opening it. Not yet.
I stretch beneath the quilt a little longer, letting the stillness nestle into the joints of my fingers, the arches of my feet. My body feels weightless here, suspended between waking and dreaming. A breath, then another. No need to rush.
The morning light spills in through the garage window, casting a soft gold across my sketchbooks, my brushes, the faint scatter of paint on the floor. Dust dances in the light like tiny performers rehearsing their parts. I sit up slowly, cross-legged on the pull-out couch, still wrapped in my quilt. My toes find the edge of the rug where Rose once kept her amp. It's been months, but her presence lingers like a warm echo in the walls.
I run my hand along the windowsill absently, tracing the ridges in the wood. One corner still has the faint stain from when I spilled coffee during an all-nighter. I didn't clean it right away. I liked the imperfection.
I stretch again, then reach for the canvas propped against the side of the desk. The painting is nearly done, a dreamscape that bends reality just slightly. A coastline with impossible blues, a sky painted in brushstrokes of sound I can't hear but sometimes feel. I pick up a thin brush and dip it gently into a diluted amber, dragging it in a whisper-thin line along the horizon. Just a few more touches.
Then I lean back and study it, not with a critic's eye but with a softness. It's not perfect. That's not the point. It's honest.
Time passes differently when I'm here, in the silence and the colors. The quiet lets me breathe deeper. It makes space for all the things that don't fit anywhere else.
Today already feels like it's holding something. I don't know what. But I can feel it pressing against the edges.
I head up to the house barefoot, the soles of my feet brushing against the cool cement steps. The morning air is crisp but not cold, the kind that nudges you awake without being rude about it.
In the kitchen, I go through the quiet motions: a scoop of oats in a small pot, a handful of chopped nuts, a spoonful of honey, a few frozen berries. English Breakfast tea steeps beside me, its steam curling like a breath.
Julie comes down the stairs, already dressed, her hair pulled half back in a low braid and clipped with iridescent butterfly clasps that catch the morning light. She's wearing a soft lavender sweater with flared sleeves and high-waisted plaid trousers. There's a simple necklace at her throat, and a steadiness in her expression that catches me off guard.
She doesn't say anything, just walks right past me and out the front door.
It's not rude. She's not mad. She's just... focused. Tuned in to something I can't see yet.
I stand there for a second, spoon in hand, the oatmeal forgotten on the counter. There's a shift in her I can't explain.
I watch the door for a beat longer, then eat my breakfast.
I step out onto the porch, still holding my tea. Carlos is already there, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Leo!" he grins, tugging at my sleeve. "Put it in. Julie's singing."
I blink at him. "Now?"
He nods, eyes wide. "It's... you'll want to hear it."
I pull the case from my pocket, open it with familiar care, and press the implant into place.
The world rushes in. Sounds bloom—wind in the trees, a car passing on the street, and from down the path, music. Piano notes, low and clear. A voice rising with them. Her voice.
"Look out, look inside of you... It's not what you lost... Relight that spark... Time to come out of the dark... Wake up... Wake up..." ♪
Julie's voice wraps around the melody, steady and aching. The lyrics wash over me in waves:
"So, wake that spirit, spirit ♪ I wanna hear it, hear it ♪ No need to fear it You're not alone ♪ You're gonna find your way ♪ Hoooomme ♪"
"Today's a good day," I say softly. Carlos nods like he already knew.
As we walk toward the garage, we pass Ray on the path. He pauses just long enough to pull me into a quick hug. I return it without a word, everything said in the silence between. Ray then leaves to drive Carlos to school, signing "You go give Julie a hug from us"
When I step inside, Julie is still seated at the piano, finishing the last soft lines of
"Wake up ♪ Mm-mm, wake up ♪"
I walk to her side and wrap my arms around her from behind the bench. She leans back into it, just for a moment.
No one says anything. We don't need to.
We just sit there. Letting the moment hold us.
The door bursts open a few moments later, slamming back against the wall. Flynn rushes in like a gust of energy wrapped in emotion, all noise and love and intensity packed into one determined storm. She's wearing a red mini-dress with a front zipper, a navy jacket with a shearling collar, knee-high black and white striped socks, and Converse. Her long braids are tucked beneath a wide-brimmed black hat, and she's holding a soda bottle like it's a microphone.
"Carlos told me you'd be out here."
Flynn's already halfway across the room before she stops herself, breath catching as her eyes lock on Julie.
She spots me too and tosses a quick wave. I sign "hey" back with a soft smile, then drift into the background, out of the spotlight where she belongs.
"We need to talk."
"Are you OK?"
"No, I'm not OK! You just got kicked out of music!"
I step back, giving them space. There's something sacred about moments like this—raw, full of history and feeling. Bigger than any canvas I could paint.
Their voices spill out in waves. I don't hear everything, but the emotion is unmistakable. Flynn is pacing now, dramatic and heartfelt:
"No, it's my turn to talk. You can't give up music. Your music is a gift. That would be a tragedy. You're basically canceling Christmas. And I love Christmas!"
Her words fill the room, bouncing off the walls like laughter and panic and love all braided together.
"When we were six, we promised to be in a band together. Double Trouble!"
Julie sighs. "I never agreed to that name."
"That's not the point," Flynn says, flapping her arms. "If you leave the music program, we'll be apart forever. Different classes. Different friends. And then we'll just end up liking each other's Instagram posts once a month, and every time I tap that little heart, my real heart will break."
I smile. I can't help it. Their rhythm is so... them. Loud, tender, chaotic, steady.
The sound of zipper teeth pulling shut grounds me again. My finished painting still leans against the easel. I lift it carefully and begin packing it into the case, folding soft cloth over the surface like tucking in a secret.
And then—underneath it all—I hear something.
Not voices. Not music.
Just... a shimmer. Whispers that shift like wind chimes underwater. Not words. Just tones. Emotions. Color, if sound could be seen.
It's coming from just outside the garage, by the front steps. My hand stills on the zipper.
The air is thick with presence.
Then silence.
Flynn's voice cuts back in: "I'm so happy for you. And me."
Julie laughs, and it's the kind of laugh that sounds like someone breathing for the first time in a while.
"I found a song. My mom wrote it. That's what made me play again."
There's a pause, then the sound of arms wrapping around each other.
Flynn pulls back and says, "My girl's back. Double Trouble lives again!"
"Not our band name."
"I gave you a T-shirt in the seventh grade that says otherwise."
I close the case with a soft click and let the moment breathe around me.
The sun's a little higher when we head out. Julie has her decorated backpack slung over one shoulder, and Flynn walks between us, still buzzing with energy. I trail beside them, listening more than speaking. Their excitement loops in waves, Julie talking about how weird it felt to sing again, Flynn already planning to announce it to the entire school before the first bell.
I just smile. Sometimes being near people you love while they're happy is enough.
The walk to school is short, but it stretches in that way good mornings do. I look up at the sky a lot—light blue with slow clouds—and wonder if the music Julie made earlier is still hanging in the air, echoing off rooftops and telephone wires.
At school, we split up near the front steps. Flynn bolts toward the entrance, calling over her shoulder about band names and flyers. Julie hesitates a second. She looks over at me.
"You okay?" she asks.
I nod. "You?"
She exhales, then smiles. "Yeah. Today's a good day."
I watch her disappear into the crowd, then make my way toward the art building.
Inside the classroom, it's quiet. A soft kind of quiet. Ms. Navarro greets me with a nod as I set the case down gently on a side table.
The teacher walks over. Her eyes move slowly across the canvas.
"You always bring feeling into your work," she says. "Even when you don't mean to."
I nod, not sure what to say. I just let the silence carry my thanks.
A couple of classmates hover nearby. One of them, a boy with soft brown curls, tilts his head.
"This one's dreamy," he says. "Like... music you can't hear. That ocean? It's like it's humming."
I smile.
Exactly.
I meet up with Julie and Flynn between classes. We find each other near the vending machines, squeezed into the edge of a passing crowd. Julie looks a little dazed, like someone who just remembered something important.
"Mrs. Harrison said my spot in the music program is already filled," she tells us quietly. "There's a new student starting tomorrow. I can reapply next semester."
Julie shakes her head, trying to stay calm. But I can see it in her shoulders—the quiet collapse she's holding off with sheer willpower.
"That's not fair," Flynn mutters, then louder: "That's not fair!"
I don't say anything. I just stand beside them, my presence a quiet weight. Sometimes it feels more respectful not to fill the silence.
Julie exhales slowly, arms folded. "I'll figure it out."
Flynn's pacing now, hands flying in frustration. "She just sang her heart out this morning. Everyone saw it. What more do they want?"
Julie shrugs. "I guess... rules."
Ray was flipping through photos on his laptop, the light from the screen making him look older than he was. One hand moved the trackpad, slow and deliberate, while the other rested in a mug like he'd forgotten it was empty.
Carlos sat nearby, tangled in a blanket, iPad glowing on his lap but ignored. His attention kept drifting toward Ray, like he was waiting for something interesting to happen.
I was on the couch, cross-legged, sketchbook open against my knee. My pencil moved slowly. Not aimless, just... soft. One of those evenings where the quiet stretches out like fabric, where even the light feels slow. It had that golden-hour warmth, slipping across the carpet like paint.
Julie came downstairs.
She wasn't in a hurry. Her steps were thoughtful, like she was still deciding whether she wanted to be here at all. I didn't look up, not at first, but I could feel the change in the room when she entered. She moved toward Ray and leaned over his shoulder, arms crossing in front of her.
He turned the laptop slightly so she could see better.
Her face shifted; a soft lift of her eyebrows, a small smile. She said something, her hand gesturing lightly toward the screen. I didn't catch the words, but her body was relaxed now, like whatever she saw had landed gently.
Ray looked pleased. Then confused. He scrolled again, lips moving. His brow furrowed. Julie leaned closer, mirroring his expression.
Carlos sat up, sudden and alert. He set his iPad aside and leaned forward, hands already flying. His voice — whatever he was saying — didn't matter. His whole body said excited. His feet bounced. Eyes wide. The way he glanced between Julie and Ray told me it was one of his ghost theories again.
Ray shook his head, but there was a smile hiding in the motion. Julie teased him, probably. She rolled her eyes and reached out to tap something on the laptop, her lips moving in a way I almost recognized.
Then she hesitated.
She stepped back, leaning up the couch, closer to where I sat. Her fingers picked at a fraying edge in her sweater. She was quiet for a second, head tilted, then looked at Ray. He turned toward her again, all attention now. She said something that made him still.
Carlos blinked, watching them both. Julie glanced between them and kept going, her words slower now, her posture careful. Not nervous. Just honest.
I didn't know what she said. Not really. But the shape of it settled in the room like something important. Carlos's face broke into a grin. He clapped dramatically and said something that made Julie laugh. She reached out and flicked his shoulder, gentle and affectionate.
Ray stood. His hands moved in a small, slow way, not quite a shrug, not quite surrender. Just something quiet.
Julie looked at him. Then at me.
And this time, she signed too, slow and deliberate "All our memories of Mom are here. And we should be too. Can we stay?" her pinky trembled just a little when she signed "Mom."
I caught every word and gave her a small smile and a nod. Carlos did the "prayer hands" thing, mouthing something ridiculous and sincere at the same time. Julie covered her mouth to keep from laughing.
Ray opened his arms and pulled her in, and she went easily. Carlos hopped up and launched himself into the hug. I closed my sketchbook and set it aside. I hesitated — just for a second — and then stood, stepping into the hug from the side. One arm.
Julie leaned her head against Ray's chest. Her hand brushed mine briefly when I wrapped my arm around them. We stayed like that for a moment. No one moved.
Then Ray sighed — a big, dramatic one — and stepped back, patting Julie's shoulder like he didn't want to let go yet. He kissed the top of her head.
Then he pulled back and clapped his hands. Said something about finding his phone. "Gotta call the realtor."
Julie pointed toward the kitchen.
Ray vanished through the hallway, already muttering to himself. Julie didn't follow. She looked down at me, still half leaning on the couch.
Julie lingered, arms still folded loosely in front of her. She glanced at me and gave me a smile that wasn't bright or wide, just soft.
The late golden light started to stretch through the trees. I sit out on the porch steps with my sketchbook, the warmth of the wood beneath me, half-listening to the world.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and check the screen. A text from Zay:
Zayden: Guess what! They bumped me into the music program early 😭 There was a spot open last minute!! Official starting tomorrow!!!
My stomach dips a little. I already know what spot that is. Julie's.
I stare at the message for a few seconds, then type back:
Me: That's amazing, Zay. You're going to crush it. Congrats.
And I mean it. I really do. He's worked so hard, and I know how much this means to him. Still, the thought lodges deep, quiet and weighty.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my implant case. I pop it open, clip the processor behind my ear, and let the world swell back in.
If I'm going to tell her, I need to be able to talk to her. I need her to see me listening.
The notes drifting from the open garage door are richer now, layered and alive, thick with more than just piano. Harmonies curl through the air: guitar, drums, a low hum of bass. Julie isn't playing alone.
Curious, I walk quietly to the edge of the doorway.
The music expands around me, like stepping into a current of light. This isn't just melody, it's a band. Tight. Electric. Breathing.
It's beautiful.
I don't ask. I don't want to break the spell. Julie sounds different when she plays like this—unburdened. Present. Like the music is more her than her silence ever was.
I step back without a word and return to the house. At the kitchen table, I open my textbook and try to focus on the reading. But the music clings to me like fog. My pencil drifts in the margins—sketching sound. Loops and spirals. Waves and echoes. The shapes of invisible things.
Eventually, I close the book. Set my pencil down.
I take my implant out, and the quiet returns.
But something in the air still vibrates.