Music for this chapter:
Seether – "Fine Again"
Nickelback - "How You Remind Me"
I Prevail – "Hurricane - Reimagined"
The shift at "The Echo" was finally over. The hum of music had faded, the clinking of glasses had ceased, and the last of the patrons had dissolved into the night, leaving behind only the acrid smell of tobacco and spilled beer. Ethan, having mechanically finished cleaning and handed over the shift to Ray, stepped outside. The silence of the dormitory, which once seemed like a refuge from the world, now felt oppressive. Every movement he made was filled with lead, every breath was heavy. He felt a suffocating emptiness that wouldn't let go, like an invisible vacuum. He didn't want to go back to a place where only loneliness and the familiar, gray ceiling awaited him.
He began to move through the Jersey City night. The cool, damp air enveloped him but brought no relief. His feet, of their own accord, led him through the unfamiliar streets of The Heights, as if trying to escape from himself. He didn't choose a route; he just moved forward, a ghost gliding through someone else's life, watching the fleeting faces and colored lights that, however, left no impression on his soul. People hurried somewhere, their voices merging into an indifferent hum, while Ethan felt completely invisible, an outside observer in someone else's play.
Yesterday was the anniversary. Six years ago, his world had collapsed, shattering into pieces that never came back together. The pain he felt was not as sharp as in the first few months; it had become chronic, a background ache, but no less agonizing for it. It had seeped into his bones, his blood, into every cell of his being. He saw laughing passersby, couples in love hurrying home, and it provoked only a dull indifference. How could they live when his world had stopped? How could they be happy when his soul was dead?
Time dragged on slowly, like thick syrup, each second pressing down, a reminder of the lost years, of a life that had passed him by. Unfamiliar cafes, small shops, residential buildings with dimly lit windows flew past. Each house seemed to hide its own stories, its own laughter and tears, but Ethan was cut off from it all. He felt like a stranger in this city, lost without a compass or a purpose. His aimless wandering was not an attempt to find something, but rather a way to escape what was left behind—heavy thoughts about his brother, his parents, his failing grades, himself. He just wanted his feet to carry him anywhere, as long as it was away from this crushing burden. He felt completely detached from the world, adrift, unable to find his place.
His eyes, extinguished and empty, slid over the neon signs, but not a single color registered in his mind. Everything was gray. His own face, if he could see it now, would be pale and gaunt. He was a shadow, a walking shell. Thoughts of music, of the piano, of his brother—they all brought only a new wave of anguish. He hadn't touched the keys in a long time, knowing it would only intensify the pain. His "spark" was gone. Forever.
"My life is meaningless without my brother"—the phrase he had whispered on the bridge now sounded like a final, irrevocable sentence. He was trapped in this monotony, this endless, gray circle. School, work, loneliness, attempts to numb the pain with alcohol—this was his existence. He was like a fly caught in a sticky web that grew stronger every day. He was trapped. Trapped in himself, in his routine, in his grief. And there seemed to be no way out.
Aimlessly wandering the unfamiliar streets of Jersey City, Ethan tried to distract himself from his oppressive thoughts, but his steps seemed to lead him on their own to a place that both beckoned and frightened him. He stumbled upon "The Vinyl Verse" music store, located just a few blocks from "The Echo," where he worked. The bright, though slightly dusty, storefront display caught his eye, promising a world Ethan had once known: old vinyl records, neat rows of guitars, drum kits waiting as if for their moment.
Through the glass, he saw the familiar silhouettes of instruments, felt an almost physical pull. His gaze fell on an album displayed in the foreground—the cover was painfully familiar; it was the same jazz pianist he and his brother often listened to together. Or perhaps it was a poster for an old rock concert they had planned to go to but never got the chance. The memory, like a shard of ice, pierced his chest, causing a familiar ache of longing.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he opened the door. An old bell above his head tinkled, announcing his arrival, but Ethan barely noticed the sound. The air inside was thick with the rich, slightly dusty smell of old records, wood, and something elusively musical, as if the walls themselves were saturated with melodies. He stepped inside and, as if following an invisible call, began to wander between the tall shelves packed with albums and sheet music. Each shelf, each record held an echo of someone's passion, someone's music.
It was painful. Every vinyl cover, every music book, triggered powerful, agonizing memories of a past that was gone forever. He saw his former self—the one who would lose himself in sheet music, who lived for music, who burned for it as brightly as these records now burned on the shelves. It was a reminder of his own, now-suppressed passion. He felt the familiar, all-encompassing anguish rise within him, enveloping him, squeezing his chest. Music, which had once been his air and his meaning, was now just a source of pain, a reminder of what he had lost.
But at the same time, through this anguish, Ethan felt something else. Something subtle, barely perceptible, like a distant, forgotten chord. Music, even this painful, still had power over him. It was his sacred wound, one he hid so carefully. And standing amidst these rows of vinyl, surrounded by others' melodies and others' passions, he felt that this place, though it caused pain, was also a potential source of healing. He didn't know what to do with this feeling, but it was there.
Still captive to his painful memories, Ethan slowly wandered along the shelves of vinyl records in "The Vinyl Verse." Every record, every album cover, stirred in him a familiar longing for the music he had lost, for the past that was irrevocably gone. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, just trying to numb the internal pain that had intensified after the memories of his brother. His fingers slid over the spines of old pressings, involuntarily stopping at a shelf of guitars. He walked over to the counter to get a better look at a vintage acoustic guitar hanging there, its dark, polished wood seeming to hold a multitude of unplayed melodies.
He lifted his gaze, and his heart, like a cornered animal, skipped a beat. Behind the counter, impossibly, stood her—Sky. The same defiant image from the bridge that had been so obsessively haunting his thoughts. Her light ash-blonde hair was slightly disheveled, but this time not by the wind, but more likely by an exhaustion that clung to her after a long rehearsal. She wore a black t-shirt with some punk band's logo and the massive leather jacket she seemed not to have taken off since the previous night. Her pale face showed weariness, but her eyes, bright and defiant, still burned, though with a noticeable fatigue.
She raised her head, and their eyes met. An instant recognition, like an electric shock, shot through the air between them. A tense, awkward silence hung in the air, thick and tangible as setting resin. Ethan felt his cheeks flush—an unfamiliar, almost forgotten sensation.
Sky broke the silence. Her signature cynical smile appeared on her lips, though it didn't reach her eyes. Her voice had a noticeable rasp, worsened by fatigue.
— What, already picked out how you're going to end it? — she waved her hand carelessly toward the shelf of albums, as if commenting on his aimless wandering among them, or perhaps alluding to his previous attempt. Her voice was sharp, but there was something in it that Ethan couldn't understand: a caustic, yet somehow magnetic, curiosity. — Or are you just looking for something? Because if you came here to meditate, this isn't the best idea. — She leaned against the counter as if her legs could no longer support her.
Ethan, to his own surprise, found the strength to speak. The words were difficult, but he felt he couldn't just remain silent.
— I… I'm not meditating. Just… came in. Looking, — his voice sounded hollow, with a note of awkwardness. He tried to look indifferent, but his gaze remained fixed on her face.
Sky snorted, but there was no contempt in it this time, only a hidden vexation and weariness. She rubbed her temple with her fingers.
— Right. 'Just looking.' So you don't need the new 'Screaming Banshees' album? — She nodded at a record sitting next to her. — Or maybe you could use this thing? — she pointed to some old, dusty sheet music lying on the counter, as if trying to jab at him.
Ethan felt his irritation mix with something new—interest. He didn't know the "Screaming Banshees," but her cynicism felt so familiar and so new at the same time.
— I don't know… I'm not really into… punk, — his voice grew slightly more confident as he allowed himself to glance at her tattoo—the broken piano. — I'm more into classical.
Sky's gaze lingered on his fingers, then rose again to his eyes. The weariness on her face seemed to recede for a second, replaced by something like a thin, barely perceptible flicker of interest.
— Classical? Seriously? — a slight surprise entered her raspy voice, which she immediately tried to hide behind a new wave of cynicism. She went back to wiping the counter, but not as listlessly as before. — Well, to each their own. I just have to survive till the end of my shift. So, if you're done just looking, don't stand here breathing down my neck.
Ethan felt his cheeks flush. He didn't know how to react to her directness, to this strange mixture of fatigue and audacity. He was used to his own invisibility, and she seemed to see right through him. He tried to brush off her question, his words sounding hollow, as if spoken from the bottom of a deep well.
— I… I'm leaving now, — he tried to feign indifference, his usual apathy, but the tremor in his hands betrayed him.
Sky stopped wiping the counter. Her gaze, bright and perceptive, fixed on Ethan again, and he felt it penetrate through his defensive layers. It was as if she could sense his vulnerability, his desire to escape.
— Sure you are, — she tossed out, and her voice held its usual cynicism, but Ethan caught a subtle hint of a challenge, as if she were offering him something more than just leaving. There was no pity in her eyes, only something like a demand, disguised as indifference.
Her words seemed to be spoken with indifference, but they pierced his numb soul like sharp thorns. Not your business. But why, then, did it feel like it was very much her business? That she, this stranger, in a few minutes on the bridge and here, in the store, had done more for him than anyone had in years? It was a strange, almost frightening feeling. She wouldn't let him go, even when her words were literally chasing him away.
Ethan felt a surge of irrational irritation. Irritation at her, for disrupting his familiar emptiness. Irritation at himself, for not being able to just brush her off like an annoying fly. Her challenge, thrown so carelessly, gave him no peace. He was used to being the one resisting, but now the initiative was in her hands, and that was unfamiliar. He stood, as if rooted to the spot, not knowing how to respond to this silent but so obvious offer: to stay.
Feeling the awkwardness grow with every second, Ethan quickly turned and walked out of the music store. The bell above the door tinkled, as if mocking his hasty retreat. The cold street air hit his face sharply, but it was less biting than Sky's gaze. He quickened his pace, trying to get away from this place, from this girl, from these new, incomprehensible feelings.
He walked down the street, and his thoughts, like fragments of old melodies, tangled in his head, refusing to form a complete piece. Sky. Her bright, defiant eyes, in which he saw something that felt familiar. Her raspy voice, speaking cynical yet captivating words. Her strange "bluff" on the bridge that had pulled him from the abyss. Why had she appeared in his life again? And why couldn't he, whose consciousness had been immersed in gray apathy for months, now stop thinking about her? Her image, like a bright but unsettling spot, was imprinted on his retina.
He felt even more awkward than he had in the store. It was a new, unfamiliar sensation—a discomfort that, however, was more alive than the usual emptiness. He looked back at the storefront of "The Vinyl Verse," but Sky was no longer visible behind the counter. Only the reflection of the dim streetlights in the glass.
On his face, which for so long had been only a mask of apathy, something different appeared for the first time in a long while. It wasn't a smile, not grief, but something indefinite—a deep and absorbing thoughtfulness, mixed with a slight irritation at this obsessive thought and an inexplicable, almost frightening curiosity. He ran a hand through his hair, which hadn't been combed in a long time, feeling its tangles, and it felt just like his thoughts.
Her appearance was like a stone thrown into a stagnant swamp, sending out ripples. His inner world, accustomed to stagnation, was beginning to change, however painfully. He didn't understand it, didn't want it, but her image, like a thin thread, had already connected him to something new. And he, without knowing it, was now just walking forward, lost in his thoughts about what had just happened.