Back within the soundproofed walls of his apartment, Kaelan performed the ritual of putting away the groceries. The tea was placed in the cupboard. The fresh vegetables were washed, dried, and stored in the crisper with geometric precision. Each action was a deliberate note in the quiet melody of his domestic life, a necessary counterpoint to the disorder outside.
His mind, however, was not on the groceries. It was composing.
He went to his desk, a simple, unadorned piece of furniture, and opened a leather-bound notebook. The page was blank, a field of pure potential. He picked up a drafting pencil, its tip sharpened to a needle point.
At the top of the page, in clean, minimalist script, he wrote:
**Composition No. 2: "The Jittering Mechanism"**
* **Subject:** Canis familiaris (Domestic Shorthair variant, tan/white)
* **Source of Dissonance:** Acute, repetitive percussive emission. Frequency: 2-3 kHz. Rhythm: Erratic, uncontrolled.
* **Owner/Curator:** Lena M. (Apartment 3B)
* **Objective:** To restore permanent silence. To transform frantic kinetic energy into perfect stillness.
He then began to chart their routine, his hand moving with calm certainty.
* **07:45:** Departure from 3B. Subject is leashed but leads the walk.
* **07:47 - 07:52:** Route proceeds down Elm Street. Subject vocalizes at passing cars, birds, and leaves.
* **07:53:** Arrival at Kerring Park. Subject is unleashed at the entrance of the wooded jogging trail.
* **07:53 - 08:05:** Subject runs ahead, out of Curator's immediate sightline for periods of 30-90 seconds.
* **Window of Opportunity:** 07:53 - 08:05. Location: The wooded jogging trail.
It was all so beautifully, tragically predictable. Their carelessness was an invitation. They left this screaming flaw unattended, trusting the world to tolerate its noise. Kaelan saw it as his duty to correct that misapprehension.
A soft knock at his door broke his concentration. It was not a harsh sound, but a polite, three-tapped rhythm. He knew who it was before he opened it.
Sorin stood in the hallway, having changed out of the oversized jersey into a simple, soft-looking grey sweater. It suited him far better, quieting the visual noise. He held a small, ceramic bowl covered in plastic wrap.
"Hey," he said, and the single syllable was a gift, delivered in that warm, natural baritone. "I, uh... I made too much potato leek soup. It's bland. I mean, it's fine! But I thought you might... you know. Want some."
He was offering a piece of his domestic chaos, a poorly made, excessive thing. But the gesture was wrapped in that voice.
Kaelan looked from the bowl to Sorin's face. He saw the hopefulness there, the need for a connection that Kaelan could observe but not feel. To refuse would be to introduce a new, interpersonal dissonance. It was inefficient.
"Thank you," Kaelan said, accepting the bowl. His fingers did not brush against Sorin's. "I am currently... composing."
Sorin's eyes lit up. "Oh, you're a musician? That's so cool. What do you play?"
"I work with silence," Kaelan replied, the truth a perfect, opaque wall.
"Wow. Deep." Sorin shifted his weight, filling the silence Kaelan valued with his own nervous energy. "Well, I'll let you get back to it. Don't work too hard."
He retreated, and the hallway was once again silent. Kaelan closed the door, placed the bowl of soup on the counter—he would dispose of it later—and returned to his notebook.
The interaction had been useful. It had confirmed that Sorin's note remained pure. And it had provided a crucial piece of data for his composition.
He needed to acquire a specific medium.
The following afternoon, Kaelan visited a small, family-run butcher shop a few blocks away. The air inside was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the faint, high cry of a bandsaw. It was a place of organized dissection, which he appreciated.
The butcher, a large man with a blood-streaked apron, smiled. "What can I get for you today?"
Kaelan's gaze swept over the glass case of crimson cuts and pale bones. "I require unprocessed meat. For a... specialty pet."
"Sure thing. We've got some off-cuts, great for making stock. Lots of good marrow in there."
"That will suffice," Kaelan said. "Approximately two pounds."
As the butcher wrapped the parcel of raw, bloody meat and bones in white paper, Kaelan felt a sense of professional satisfaction. This was not sustenance. This was **pigment**. This was the bait that would lure the flawed "mechanism" into his studio, where he could finally dismantle its noisy workings and compose its lasting peace.
He walked home, the package a heavy, promising weight in his reusable shopping bag. As he entered his building, he saw Lena in the lobby, struggling with a package of her own. The dog was at her feet, a taut spring of potential noise.
"Let me get that for you," Kaelan offered, his voice the epitome of polite neutrality.
"Oh! Kaelan, thank you," she said, smiling with genuine relief. "It's just cat litter for my sister. So heavy."
He held the main door open for her, his eyes flicking down to the dog. It stared up at him, its body vibrating with a silent growl. Animals often sensed the stillness in him, the void where a soul should have been. It saw the final composer behind the polite neighbor's mask.
*Soon,* he thought, not with malice, but with anticipation. *We will collaborate on your masterpiece.*
He climbed the stairs to his apartment, the scent of raw meat a faint promise in the air. He placed the package in his sterile refrigerator, next to the forgotten soup.
He sat back at his desk, looking over his notes. The plan was elegant. Simple. It required no supernatural power, only patience, precision, and a willingness to correct the world's flaws.
The research was complete. The materials were gathered.
All that remained was the performance.