Chapter Text
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
“I’m sorry, Harris. The label rejected it.”
The call ended before he could bring himself to respond.
He ended the call.
‘Rejected.’
The word lingered in the air like a low and dying note. He’d heard it so many times over the past two years—like a broken record—that it no longer stung. It just hollowed him out a little more each time.
Harris sank back into his swivel chair— staring at the blinking lights on the console in front of him. Each flicker felt like a reminder of a heartbeat that wasn’t his anymore. One that belonged to the music he could no longer reach.
The studio around him was a graveyard of forgotten melodies. Empty paper cups, scattered sheet music, and half-written lyrics filled the silence. The air smelled faintly of dust, stale coffee , and burnt-out wires. On the walls, gold records and framed posters of his past successes stared down at him like ghosts of a man who already reached the peak of his career.
He exhaled a shaky breath, then he stood. The hum of the machines was too much. It sounded like noise mocking his silence. One by one, he turned them off: the mixers, the monitors, and the lights.
When the last switch clicked, darkness swallowed the room.
For the first time in months, it was quiet enough for him to hear his own sigh of defeat, a sound that felt more final and utterly disgusting.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
Salt air and warm sunlight washed over Harris the moment he stepped out of the cab. For the first time in months, something inside him eased. It was just a fraction, but enough to make him breathe a little deeper. After endless paperwork and even more waiting, the vacation house he’d been trying to lease was finally his— at least for a year.
The place had lived in the corners of his memory for years. He first saw it when he was eight years old, during a family trip to the nearby beach resort. One night, restless and wide-eyed, he slipped away from the noisy cottage to watch the stars scattered across the dark sky. His bare feet followed the hush of the ripples that somehow led him to that house.
The beach house looked almost magical to his young eyes then. Weathered white walls glowed under the moon, the wooden railings wrapped in creeping vines, and tall windows reflected the distant shimmer of the sea. It looked abandoned and quiet— until he heard it.
A melody. Gentle, raw, and full of something warm he couldn’t name yet.
The sound of guitar strings— plucked with a kind of innocence and yearning— drifted through the cracks of the door.
The music froze him in place.
He remembered leaning toward the window with his palms pressed to the cool glass and found a boy—about his age— lying on the floor with a guitar resting on his chest. Eyes closed. Fingers moving instinctively, like the music wasn’t something he created but something he received.
The next morning, Harris wandered back. This time, the boy was playing an old upright piano with the sunlight pouring over him like a blessing. An elderly woman sat beside him, smiling with the soft pride of someone who’d heard him grow note by note.
Harris never knew who the boy was. Their paths never crossed. The boy was always inside the beach house everytime he went to check the place that summer.
Over the following years, he kept coming back to the same beach with his family but he’d never seen him again. The melody the little boy played had disappeared with him.
But those melodies—those fleeting moments—imprinted themselves on him, like the first spark of something he would someday call passion.
It was the first time music felt like a story only he could hear.
Only he could feel.
Now, standing before the same house—older and quieter, yet it seemed to have been given a more modern look— he felt that childhood memory flicker to life.
Maybe… maybe returning here could help him find the music he’d lost.
Or at least remind him that it once existed at all.
Until him…
After a long, restless stroll along the shoreline, Harris returned to the beach house feeling defeated. Salt clung to his skin, but it was the heaviness in his chest that truly weighed him down.
He still hadn’t found the right words. The right tune. The right spark.
Even being here—at the place where he first fell in love with music—felt futile. What was he supposed to do when even memory couldn’t save him?
A week had slipped by unnoticed, lost to blank pages and empty chords. Wasted days. Quiet nights. A loneliness that seeped into the floorboards.
When he pushed open the door, the soft glow of a single night lamp greeted him. Its light brushed faintly over the old upright piano standing near the living room window—the same piano he remembered from when he was eight, as though time had circled back to mock him.
He stepped toward it, drawn despite the ache in his chest. Sitting on the worn bench, he let his fingers fall onto the keys without a thought.
At first, it was nothing—just clumsy notes, carelessly pressed, as if he was trying to shake the frustration out through the noise. But soon the tune shifted. The keys answered him, echoing every emotion he had buried for months… years even.
Anger.
Disappointment.
Exhaustion.
All of it spilled out in scattered chords that crashed and collided like debris swept up by a violent tide.
The piano became an extension of him—of every broken piece, every unanswered question, and every fear that he was no longer who he once was.
And in that desperate, unpolished chaos… something began to move.
Then came a soft thud, like a careful step on the stairwell.
Harris’s fingers froze above the keys. The last chord lingered, trembling in the dim light before dissolving into silence.
Someone was here.
He felt it before he fully heard it—a presence behind him, steady and unhurried, as if the person had been standing there longer than he realized, and was simply listening.
Watching.
His breath hitched. Slowly, he turned his head, the fine hairs on his arms rising as though warning him of something he couldn’t name. Curious eyes met him from halfway down the staircase—dark, unreadable, and drawn to him with an intensity that made the room feel smaller.
Who…?
He blinked hard.
The other person’s presence made no sense. He was certain he was the only one renting the house.
No shared listings, no complicated clauses—it was his for the entire year. He had checked, double-checked, triple-checked.
Unless… he’d been scammed?
The thought flashed through his mind, cold and unwelcome, but he shoved it aside just as quickly. No. He’d been too careful for that.
So then, why was someone descending the stairs of the house Harris was supposed to be alone in?
And why did their presence feel so strangely familiar—like a forgotten melody brushing against his memory?
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
A few hours later, Harris laid awake in bed. Sleep refused to come.
The quiet of the beach house pressed in on him, thick and restless. The distant rhythm of the waves filtered through the half-open window, steady and calm—yet his thoughts refused to follow the same rhythm.
There was someone else here. Even now, just across the hall.
The thought felt unreal. Only hours ago, he had been certain the house was his alone for the entire year. Yet after the awkward encounter at the piano, the two of them had reluctantly agreed to sort things out with the host, Shane, in the morning. With nothing else to do, they had retreated to separate rooms, each carrying their own confusion down the quiet hallway.
But distance did little to settle Harris’s mind.
He stared at the ceiling, tracing the faint shadows cast by the moonlight spilling through the curtains. Every creak of the wooden floorboards, every whisper of wind through the old walls made him wonder if the other man was awake too.
And somehow, despite the unfamiliarity of the situation, what unsettled him most wasn’t the fact that a stranger was staying in the house.
It was the strange, lingering sense of familiarity.
As if that presence just across the hall was not entirely new.
As if somewhere, buried deep in his memory, Harris had already heard the quiet rhythm of that person’s existence before.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
Morning arrived with the kind of brightness that made everything feel sharper, clearer, and inescapable.
And with it came the realization that had been tugging at the edge of Harris’s mind all night.
That face.
He had seen it before.
Not in passing, not in some vague memory but everywhere. On billboards towering above city streets. In the glossy magazine spreads at convenience store counters. In commercials that played between songs on television.
Three years ago, that face had been impossible to ignore.
The name that echoed through radio interviews and late-night talk shows. The prodigy everyone praised. The soloist whose performances sold out theaters within minutes.
And then, just as suddenly as he had risen to fame…
He vanished.
The world tour was cancelled.
No farewell concerts. No final interviews. Just silence where music once lived.
Yet somehow, impossibly, that same superstar—who had disappeared from the world without a trace—was now standing in the same beach house as Harris.
He remembered the news that shook the entertainment industry three years ago.
It had been everywhere.
That night was supposed to be the beginning of something extraordinary. Lawrence G was holding the kickoff concert for his first world tour. The venue had been packed, every seat filled with fans who had watched his rise from an independent singer posting songs online to one of the most talked-about artists of the year.
Harris had been there, too.
Both as a fan… and as a fellow musician.
Long before the billboards and interviews, Harris had already known Lawrence’s music. Back when his songs were just simple uploads on the internet, recorded in small rooms with imperfect sound and honest lyrics. Harris used to sing those songs at open mics while trying to carve out a name for himself.
Back then, Lawrence wasn’t a superstar.
But Harris had seen it—the quiet brilliance in the melodies, the kind of voice that could make a room fall silent.
Around that same time, Harris had finally landed a job at a recording company. At first, he worked in the shadows, ghostwriting for a well-known composer whose name carried more weight than his own. But slowly, piece by piece, he found his footing.
Eventually, he wrote a song under his own name.
Then another.
And another.
Artists began reaching out to him, asking to collaborate, and trusting him with their music.
Yet there was always that name at the top of the list he carried quietly in his heart.
That one artist he had always wanted to write a song for.
Lawrence G.
So Harris attended the kickoff concert, hoping—maybe foolishly—for a chance to speak with him. He didn’t even have a song prepared yet. But after years of listening to Lawrence’s music, Harris believed he would be able to write one.
The right one.
The kind of song that would belong only to Lawrence.
And somehow, he felt certain that if Lawrence heard it… he would sing it.
But what was meant to be the best night of Lawrence’s life turned into a nightmare no one could have imagined.
The concert never finished.
Gunshots shattered the music. Panic swallowed the arena as people ran, screamed, and fell.
A mass shooting tore through the crowd, leaving chaos in its wake.
Harris had been there.
One of the fortunate ones who made it out alive.
But when the sirens faded and the news reports filled the screens, one question echoed louder than all the others.
Where was Lawrence G?
He had vanished after that night.
No interviews. No statements. No sightings.
The star the world had watched rise so quickly disappeared into silence.
And strangely, that same year…
Harris won Composer of the Year.
And somehow, in the same breath of fate, he also lost his music.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
From the hallway, Harris could clearly hear the frustration in Lawrence’s voice.
Lawrence was in the kitchen with Shane—the host who had leased the beach house to Harris and, as it turned out, Lawrence’s cousin. Their voices carried through the quiet house, sharp against the otherwise peaceful morning.
Shane hadn’t known Lawrence planned to return.
Which was exactly how Harris had managed to rent the place in the first place.
“…I don’t care how it happened, Shane,” Lawrence’s voice cut through the air, low but tense. “He needs to leave.”
Harris leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at the wooden floorboards as the words sank in.
Lawrence wanted him gone.
And honestly… Harris understood why. If their roles were reversed, he probably would have reacted the same way. This was Lawrence’s house, after all—his refuge.
But Harris had waited months for this place.
Months of paperwork, calls, and promises that the lease would finally open up.
He wasn’t about to pack his bags after barely a week.
And now that he knew who Lawrence was—really was—Harris felt an even stronger pull to stay.
Not out of stubbornness.
But because something about this house, and the man living in it, felt like the missing piece of the silence that had swallowed his music.
For the first time in years, Harris had the strange feeling that leaving now would mean losing something important.
Something he hadn’t even found yet.
One week.
That was all Shane managed to negotiate.
After a long, strained conversation, Lawrence finally agreed to let Harris stay in the beach house for one more week. No more. No extensions. Just seven days.
Harris knew it wouldn’t be enough. Not nearly enough. But it was better than being thrown out that very morning. So he accepted the compromise. It was either that… or leave immediately.
The air between them felt stiff when the meeting ended. Neither of them seemed eager to say anything more.
Lawrence turned first.
“Don’t play the piano while I’m here,” he said, his voice cool and dismissive, as if the instrument meant nothing at all.
He paused in the hallway.
“And don’t play any music. At all.”
The words landed heavier than Harris expected.
Then Lawrence walked away and disappeared into his room without another glance.
Harris remained where he stood, rooted to the spot as the quiet of the house returned.
His gaze drifted toward the old upright piano in the living room, its worn keys now sitting in stubborn silence.
It didn’t make sense.
The man who once filled arenas with music—the voice that made thousands of people listen now wanted nothing to do with it.
And Harris couldn’t help but wonder what kind of pain could make someone abandon the very thing that once defined their whole life.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
That night, sleep refused to come.
Harris lay on his back, staring at the ceiling as Lawrence’s words replayed in his mind like a broken record.
Don’t play any music. At all.
Each repetition felt heavier than the last.
Lawrence was nothing like the person he remembered from three years ago. The boy who once lived and breathed music… now only wanted silence. He chose it. He clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him together.
Harris turned to his side, exhaling sharply, but the restlessness only grew.
So he stood.
The wooden floor was cool beneath his feet as he stepped out into the dim hallway, the house wrapped in a quiet that felt almost too fragile to disturb.
Across from him was Lawrence’s door.
Closed.
Still.
Yet somehow… not distant.
Harris found himself walking toward it before he could stop himself. Each step was slow, uncertain, like he was crossing a line he didn’t fully understand. His heartbeat thudded against his ribs, loud enough to make him wonder if it could be heard from the other side.
What was he doing?
His mind caught up, pulling him back, reminding him how wrong this was—how invasive, how unwelcome he might be. This wasn’t his space to enter. Not his silence to break.
So he stopped.
Just stood there.
Caught between leaving… and staying.
And then, without warning, a memory surfaced.
The first time he saw Lawrence perform live.
It had only been a short segment on a noontime show—barely four minutes—but it was enough. Harris had been in the crowd, pressed between strangers, craning his neck just to catch a glimpse of him.
Back then, Lawrence stood on stage with a guitar strapped across his chest, like it belonged there—as if it were part of him. His smile had been effortless, his voice unguarded, every note carrying a kind of freedom Harris had never known how to reach.
He looked the happiest there. Alive in a way that made everything else fade into the background.
And just like that… the world noticed him. Overnight, Lawrence became a name everyone knew.
While Harris—
Harris remained unseen.
A ghost behind melodies that carried other people’s names. Writing songs for voices that were never his. Applauded in silence, if at all.
Years passed like that.
And from a distance, Harris could only watch as Lawrence’s world expanded—bigger stages, louder crowds, and brighter lights. Each step forward made the distance between them feel wider, more impossible to cross.
How could he ever reach someone like that?
How could a nameless songwriter hope to be heard by a star the world was already listening to?
And yet…
Now, just a few feet away, separated by nothing but a door— Lawrence was here.
Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear. Close enough to remind Harris of everything he once dreamed of… and everything he lost along the way.
Harris swallowed hard, his hand hovering just inches from the door.
He didn’t knock.
Instead, he walked away… down the stairs.
The house creaked softly beneath each step, the silence stretching thin around him.
His gaze drifted—inevitably—toward the piano.
‘Don’t play any music. At all.’
Lawrence’s voice echoed again, firm and final.
Harris should have listened.
He told himself he would.
But before the thought could fully settle, his fingers were already on the keys—hesitant at first, then restless. The notes came out uneven, searching… as if trying to remember something they had long forgotten.
And just like that, the past came rushing in.
He remembered the day he walked out of the recording company—the place that built him and buried him all at once. The place where he gave away pieces of himself, one song at a time, under names that were never his.
That was the day he chose himself.
For the first time, he fought—not just to create, but to be seen.
He was done being a ghost.
He was Harris Park. Every lyric he wrote carried his breath. Every melody held fragments of his soul. His music wasn’t something to hide behind someone else’s name—it was his, wholly and painfully his.
And he deserved to claim it.
So he left. With no safety net. No promises. Just a fragile, stubborn kind of hope.
The beginning was quiet. Open mic nights in dimly lit bars. Small crowds that barely listened. He played songs people already knew—Lawrence’s, mostly. Sometimes the ones he himself had written for other artists, though no one in the room ever realized it.
It didn’t matter.
Not yet.
Because slowly, almost imperceptibly, things began to shift.
He started slipping in his own melodies—unreleased, unnamed, unclaimed. Songs that had no place in the world yet except in those fleeting performances.
Night after night, he returned.
Played.
Waited.
Hoped.
Until one night, someone listened.
An artist approached him. Then another. Then more.
And just like that, his name began to exist.
Harris Park.
Not loudly. Not all at once. But enough to be heard.
He became the composer people sought out. The name whispered behind successful tracks. The quiet force behind voices that reached millions.
He was finally becoming someone.
Until one morning—
Everything collapsed.
He remembered the glow of his phone screen, the way his hands trembled before he even understood why. The headline burned into his vision.
“Composer of the Year, Harris Park—A Fraud.”
The words felt unreal. Distant.
And yet they hit harder than any rejection he had ever faced.
Because this time, it wasn’t just his music that was being questioned. It was his truth. His struggle. His right to exist in the space he fought so hard to earn.
The notes beneath his fingers faltered.
What came out next wasn’t music.
It was grief—raw and uncontained—forced into the shape of a melody, breaking apart the moment it touched the air.
The notes blurred beneath his fingers, uneven and desperate. They rose and fell like something trying to survive, not something meant to be heard.
Then—
A soft thud. It slipped through the noise, quiet but unmistakable. The same sound from the other night.
Harris’s hands stilled.
The last note hung, fragile and exposed, before collapsing into silence. His pulse roared in his ears as he pushed himself up from the bench, every muscle suddenly tense. Words scrambled in his mind—apologies, explanations, defenses—but none of them settled long enough to be spoken.
He turned.
Lawrence was there, leaning against the wall at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed, and posture guarded. The dim light carved shadows across his face, leaving his expression unreadable—but his presence… his presence was undeniable.
He had been listening.
Not interrupting. Not stopping him.
Just… listening.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The silence stretched, thick with everything unspoken—Harris’s defiance, his guilt, his need; Lawrence’s restraint, his distance, something quieter beneath it all that Harris couldn’t yet name.
Harris’s chest tightened.
He should say something. He broke the one thing Lawrence asked of him. He invaded the silence Lawrence had chosen, the silence he seemed to need. And yet—some part of Harris refused to regret it. Because for the first time in so long, what came out of him, however broken, had been real.
But the words wouldn’t come.
They never did when it mattered most.
Lawrence’s gaze lingered for a fraction longer—heavy, searching, as if weighing something he wasn’t ready to confront.
Then he looked away.
No anger. No accusation.
Just quiet withdrawal.
He turned and made his way up the stairs.
Each step felt louder than it should have been.
Harris remained where he stood, unmoving, breath caught somewhere between relief and something far more fragile. He listened—helplessly, intently—as the distance between them grew.
Until—
The soft click of a door opening. Then closing.
And just like that, the silence returned. But it wasn’t the same silence as before.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
The morning air carried a faint chill, brushing against Harris’s skin as he stepped outside. It was the kind of cold that didn’t bite. Itjust lingered like something unfinished.
The sea stretched endlessly ahead, pale under the early light. Waves rolled in steady rhythm, grounding… constant.
Unlike him.
He spotted Lawrence immediately.
Sitting on the patio steps, a mug cradled in his hands, shoulders slightly hunched—not from the cold, but from something heavier. He wasn’t really looking at the ocean. Harris could tell. His gaze was fixed on it, but distant, unfocused… like he was somewhere else entirely.
‘Still thinking about last night,’ Harris realized.
About the piano.
About the music he wasn’t supposed to play.
Harris hesitated for half a second, then stepped forward anyway.
“Didn’t peg you for a morning person,” he said, voice still rough with sleep.
Lawrence didn’t turn. “I’m not.”
Harris huffed quietly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as he moved to stand beside him. “Then what’s this? Existential crisis at sunrise?”
A small, humorless sound left Lawrence. “Something like that.”
Harris leaned against the railing, letting his gaze drift toward the sea. From the corner of his eye, he studied Lawrence—the tension in his posture, the way his fingers curled loosely around the mug like he needed something to hold onto.
This wasn’t the person he remembered.
Or maybe… this was who Lawrence had always been, just hidden beneath the noise of everything else.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward—just… careful. Like both of them were testing how much space the other would take.
Then Harris broke it.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I waited months for this place.”
Lawrence shifted slightly. “What do you mean?”
Harris kept his eyes on the horizon. It was easier that way.
“Your cousin told me about it back in summer,” he said. “Said it was always booked. People kept extending their stays like they didn’t want to leave.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I thought I missed my chance. But when he called and said it opened up… I didn’t think twice.”
He exhaled slowly.
“It felt like the kind of place where you could finally breathe.”
He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “I didn’t know it was yours, though.”
There was a slight shift beside him.
“What do you mean, was?” Lawrence asked.
Harris turned his head then, really looking at him this time. Up close, it was clearer—the familiarity, the face he’d seen a hundred times before, now stripped of everything that once made it untouchable.
“You’re Lawrence G,” he said, softer now. “The one who disappeared three years ago.”
He watched the reaction closely.
The way Lawrence stiffened. The careful way he set his mug down, like even that small movement required control.
“I didn’t disappear,” Lawrence said.
Harris raised a brow slightly. “That’s one way to put it.” He shrugged. “You just stopped showing up. One day you were everywhere, then suddenly… nothing.”
Lawrence’s jaw tightened.
“I had my reasons.”
Harris didn’t push. He knew those reasons. Everyone did. The whole world had watched it unfold.
“I’m sure you did,” he said instead, tone quieter now. “Still… I didn’t expect to end up renting a place owned by someone whose songs I used to play.”
That got his attention.
“You played my songs?” Lawrence asked.
Harris gave a small shrug, though something in his chest tightened at the memory. “Yeah. Back when I was still figuring things out.” He let out a soft breath. “Yours were different. Real. It made people actually listen for once.”
He didn’t add that those songs were the reason he kept going. He didn’t add how many nights he held onto them like something steady.
Lawrence didn’t respond. And somehow, that said enough.
Harris glanced at him again, catching the shift in his expression—the way the words didn’t seem to land like compliments anymore, but like something heavier. Like a reminder of who he used to be.
Harris looked away.
“Maybe it was a long time ago,” he said, softer now. “But last night… when I played…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It felt like this place remembers you. Like the piano does, too.”
Silence.
Harris straightened, pushing himself off the railing. He had already said too much.
“Anyway,” he added lightly, stepping back toward the door, “thanks for letting me stay. I’ll keep it quiet tonight.”
It was easier that way.
Safer.
He turned to leave—
“You don’t have to.”
Harris stopped. He looked back.
Lawrence hadn’t moved. His gaze was still fixed on the sea, but something in his voice had shifted—quieter, less guarded.
“The piano,” he said. “You don’t have to keep it quiet.”
For a moment, Harris just stood there.
Then he nodded once.
“Got it.”
But as he turned away again, something unfamiliar settled in his chest—
Not quite hope.
But close enough to make him stay.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
Harris wasn’t planning to play.
Not after what Lawrence said.
Not after the way silence seemed to be the only thing holding him together.
But the quiet that night felt different. Too heavy. Too full of things left unsaid.
So Harris sat at the piano anyway, fingers resting lightly on the keys, as if asking permission.
Then, slowly—
He began.
The melody came out softer than anything he had played before. Careful. Measured. Like he was tracing something fragile in the dark.
Not meant to be heard.
Just… felt.
Each note settled gently into the room, steady and warm, like something trying to exist without breaking the silence entirely.
Harris closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound guide him instead of forcing it. It wasn’t a song he knew. It wasn’t something he had written before.
It was something else.
Something quiet.
Something safe.
Then—
He felt it.
That shift in the air.
Someone was there.
His fingers faltered for the briefest second before continuing, softer now, instinctively adjusting—as if the music had found its listener.
Lawrence.
Harris didn’t turn immediately.
He didn’t want to startle him. He didn’t want to break whatever fragile thread had formed between the melody and the silence upstairs.
But he could feel it—the tension, the hesitation, the quiet pull that had brought Lawrence down.
Carefully, Harris glanced up.
There he was, standing by the stairwell.
Still. Unmoving.
But not closed off.
Lawrence’s hands trembled slightly at his sides, his breathing uneven, like he was holding himself together by something invisible. His eyes were fixed on nothing and everything at once—lost somewhere between the present and something far more distant.
And yet…
He stayed.
He listened.
Something in Harris’s chest tightened. So he kept playing. Softer. Gentler. Like the music wasn’t his anymore. Like it belonged to the space between them.
The melody wrapped around the room, simple and unassuming—almost like a lullaby. Not demanding to be understood, just… offering itself.
And slowly, Harris felt it.
The shift.
The tension didn’t disappear—but it changed. Softened. Like something sharp was being held with care instead of resisting.
Then, barely a whisper—
“Don’t stop.”
Harris’s breath caught. He looked up again.
Lawrence’s voice was fragile, almost breaking under its own weight—but it was there. Real. Asking.
He was not pushing the music away.
He was holding onto it.
Harris nodded once, almost instinctively, before lowering his gaze back to the keys.
He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
The melody deepened—not louder, not heavier—but fuller. Like it had found a reason to stay.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Lawrence move.
Slowly. Carefully.
Until he sat on the bottom step.
Close enough.
Still trembling.
But staying.
Harris didn’t look at him again.
Not because he didn’t want to—
But because this moment felt too delicate to risk breaking.
So he played, letting each note fall exactly where it needed to, filling the space without overwhelming it.
Until—
The final note came.
It lingered in the air, fragile and trembling, carrying more than Harris could put into words.
He let it fade naturally, his fingers hovering over the keys as silence slowly returned.
But the silence wasn’t empty.
It was full.
Harris finally looked up.
Lawrence hadn’t moved.
Even in the dim light, Harris could see it—the tightness in his shoulders, the way his hand pressed against his chest, his breathing uneven again.
Not because of fear this time.
Something deeper.
Something breaking open.
Harris stood carefully, every movement slow, deliberate, as if anything sudden might shatter what little steadiness Lawrence had found.
He crossed the room. The floor creaked softly beneath his feet.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, careful. “You okay?”
No response.
Lawrence’s focus was somewhere else entirely—on breathing, on holding himself together.
Harris stopped a few steps away. Too close might push him. Too far might leave him alone.
So instead, he lowered himself onto the bottom step beside him—not touching, not crowding. Just… there.
Present.
They sat in silence. The waves outside moved in a steady rhythm, faint but grounding. The last trace of the melody still lingered, softer now, like it didn’t want to leave just yet.
After a moment, Harris spoke again.
“You don’t have to tell me what that was about,” he said quietly. “But if it helps… I can stay here for a bit. No talking. Just breathing.”
Lawrence’s hand tightened briefly against his chest.
Then loosened.
A small nod.
Harris leaned back against the stair rail, gaze drifting away—not because he didn’t care, but because it felt like the only way to give Lawrence space without leaving him alone.
Time passed.
A minute. Maybe more.
Slowly, the tension eased. Lawrence’s breathing steadied, the sharp edges softening into something he could carry instead of something tearing through him.
Harris exhaled quietly.
“I’ll play softer next time,” he murmured. “Promise.”
Lawrence shook his head, voice rough. “It’s not the music.”
Harris turned slightly, waiting—but not pushing.
“It’s what it reminds me of.”
That… made sense. More than Lawrence probably realized.
Harris nodded once. No questions. No need to dig deeper.
“Then…” he said softly, “maybe it’s time it starts reminding you of something else.”
He wasn’t sure if that was too much.
Too soon.
But the words felt right.
They settled between them—uncertain and fragile, but real.
Lawrence didn’t respond. But he didn’t pull away either. His gaze drifted toward the piano.
And for a moment, Harris saw it—
Not fear.
Not rejection.
Just… uncertainty.
Something that hadn’t fully closed itself off yet.
So Harris stayed.
Quiet. Steady.
Beside Lawrence.
And in that stillness, something shifted.
Not fixed.
Not healed.
But softer.
And for the first time since Harris arrived—
The silence didn’t feel like something he had to fight. It felt like something they could share.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
Morning light spilled through the kitchen windows, soft and golden, catching on the edges of everything like it was trying to make the world feel gentler than it actually was.
Harris paused in the hallway, taking it in.
The sea beyond the glass shimmered—calm, endless—like nothing had happened the night before. Like the world had quietly reset itself.
But Harris knew better.
He could still feel it.
The way Lawrence had sat beside him on the stairs. The way his breathing slowly steadied. The way the silence had changed.
Harris stepped into the kitchen.
Lawrence was already there, standing by the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. His posture looked composed, but his fingers gave him away—restless, tapping lightly against the surface like his thoughts hadn’t settled yet.
Harris leaned against the doorway for a second, watching.
There was something different.
Subtle. Barely there.
But different.
“Morning,” he said, voice still rough with sleep as he pushed himself off the frame and walked in.
Lawrence nodded, eyes fixed on his mug. “Morning.”
Harris made his way to the fridge, pulling it open, the cold air brushing against his face. “Are you always up this early?”
“Not really.”
Harris grabbed the milk, glancing at him briefly. “Can’t sleep?”
A pause.
“Something like that.”
Harris hummed under his breath, pouring milk into his cup. The soft sound filled the space between them, easy and unforced.
But the silence that followed felt… different.
Not heavy.
Just waiting.
From the corner of his eye, Harris noticed the way Lawrence’s grip tightened around his mug, like he was holding onto something more than just coffee.
Then—
“About last night…”
Harris looked up.
Lawrence didn’t meet his eyes. His voice caught, quiet, uncertain. “I—uh… thanks.”
It was small.
It was awkward.
But it landed heavier than anything else he could’ve said.
Harris blinked once. He was caught off guard for half a second. Then he shrugged lightly, letting a soft grin pull at his lips. “You don’t have to thank me. I was just… there.”
It was easier to say it like that. It was less complicated.
“You didn’t have to be,” Lawrence said.
That made Harris pause.
He tilted his head slightly, a faint teasing note slipping back into his voice, softer this time. “Yeah, well. I didn’t exactly have anything better to do at two in the morning.”
For a second, he wasn’t sure how that would land.
Then—
A quiet laugh.
Small. Unintentional.
But real.
Harris felt something in his chest loosen at the sound. He smiled—subtle, almost unnoticeable—but it softened his gaze.
“Anyway,” he said, taking his cup and leaning back against the counter, “you look better this morning. Coffee helps, huh?”
Lawrence glanced at his mug. “Coffee and… piano, maybe.”
Harris raised a brow, interest flickering. “Is that so?”
“Yeah.”
There was something in the way he said it—quiet, almost like he was testing the truth of it himself.
Their eyes met for a brief moment.
Not long enough to linger.
But enough.
Enough for Harris to catch it—gratitude, maybe. Or something close to it. Something unspoken, but real.
He looked away first, lifting his cup to his lips.
“Guess I’ll have to keep playing, then.”
He said it lightly.
But he meant it.
There was a small pause behind him.
Harris didn’t turn, but he could feel it—the shift, the hesitation, the way the moment settled between them instead of slipping away.
Then—
“Yeah,” Lawrence said softly. “Maybe you should.”
Harris took another sip of his coffee, eyes drifting toward the window, toward the calm stretch of sea beyond it.
And for the first time since he arrived—
Playing didn’t feel like defiance.
It felt like something… shared.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
Harris leaned against the doorway, a faint smirk settling on his lips—until his gaze dropped to the guitar in Lawrence’s hands.
And something in him stilled.
He knew that guitar.
Not just the shape. Not just the worn wood or the way the edges had softened with time.
He knew it.
A flicker of memory surfaced—moonlight, the quiet hum of the sea, a boy sprawled on the floor with that same guitar resting against his chest, playing like the world didn’t exist beyond those strings.
Harris’s chest tightened.
‘So it was you.’
“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” he said, keeping his tone light, even as something deeper pulled beneath it.
Lawrence startled, nearly dropping the pick. “I—I was just… checking if it still works.”
Harris nodded toward the guitar, pushing himself off the doorway and stepping inside. “Sounds like it does.”
“It’s out of tune,” Lawrence muttered.
Harris’s gaze lingered on the instrument—the familiar scratches, the way it sat in Lawrence’s hands like it had always belonged there.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “You’re playing again.”
Lawrence didn’t answer.
He looked down instead, fingers moving over the strings like he was adjusting them, but Harris could see it—the slight tremor, the hesitation he was trying to hide.
Harris didn’t call it out. Didn’t joke. Didn’t push.
He just dragged a nearby crate closer and sat, leaving enough space between them to keep things easy… but close enough that Lawrence wouldn’t feel alone in it.
The silence stretched.
But it wasn’t empty.
It felt… gentle. Familiar, in a way Harris couldn’t quite explain.
Lawrence took a small breath.
Then strummed.
A single chord—rough around the edges, slightly off, but real.
Then another.
Harris leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, listening.
Really listening.
Each sound filled the small room like light slipping through something old and fragile—imperfect, yes, but warm. Alive.
And beneath it all, Harris felt something else settle into place.
A quiet certainty.
This was the same boy.
The boy from years ago.
The boy whose music had reached him before anything else ever did.
The boy who made him fall in love with sound before he even understood what it meant.
And now—
He was here.
Right in front of him.
Playing again.
Harris didn’t say a word. He didn’t want to break it. Because for the first time since he stepped into this house, music didn’t feel like something he was chasing.
It felt like something he had finally found again.
And maybe—
There was something that was finally finding its way back, too.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
That night, sleep came—but not gently.
Harris found himself standing in a place he knew too well.
His studio.
Morning light spilled through the windows, harsh and unforgiving, exposing every corner he used to hide in. The room smelled the same—coffee gone cold, paper, and dust—but something felt wrong. It was too quiet—too still.
Then his phone lit up.
Notification after notification.
Messages. Tags. Mentions.
He didn’t need to open them to know.
He already felt it.
The shift.
The fall.
Still, his fingers moved. Scrolling. Reading.
‘Fraud.’
‘Plagiarist.’
‘He stole it.’
‘He doesn’t deserve that award.’
‘He cheated his way to win ‘Composer of the Year.’
Each word hit like a blow, stacking one after another until he couldn’t tell which hurt more—the accusation, or the way people believed it so easily.
His chest tightened.
“I didn’t—” he tried to say, but the words didn’t come out right. Even in his own head, they sounded weak. Unconvincing.
The scene shifted.
Suddenly, he was outside.
The heat hit him first. Then the noise.
A crowd had gathered in front of the studio.
People he didn’t recognize—but they knew him. Or at least, they thought they did.
Phones were raised, cameras pointed straight at him the moment he stepped out.
“There he is!”
“Say something!”
“Did you steal it?”
The questions came fast, sharp, and unforgiving.
Harris froze.
“I didn’t—” he tried again, but his voice was swallowed by the noise.
Something hit him.
Soft at first.
Then another.
An egg cracked against his shoulder, the smell sharp and sour. A tomato followed, bursting against the pavement at his feet, staining everything red.
Then more.
Eggs. Tomatoes. Whatever people could grab.
Each one thrown with certainty.
With anger.
With judgment.
Harris staggered back, raising his arms too late, his vision blurring—not just from what was hitting him, but from everything collapsing at once.
“I didn’t…” he whispered, but no one was listening.
No one wanted to.
To them, it was already decided.
He wasn’t Harris Park, the composer who fought for his name.
He was a liar.
A fraud.
The crowd surged closer. Voices louder. Faces sharper. Accusations heavier.
And Harris—
Harris couldn’t breathe.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
He woke with a sharp inhale, chest heaving as if he had been running.
Darkness surrounded him, broken only by the faint sound of waves outside.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Didn’t trust that he was really awake.
His hands trembled slightly as he pressed them against his chest, grounding himself, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—real, and present.
But the words…
They still echoed.
‘Fraud.’
‘ Plagiarist.’
Harris squeezed his eyes shut.
Even now—
They hadn’t let him go.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹˙⋆✮♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.𝄞𝄢
The afternoon should’ve felt easy.
Sunlight poured through the windows, warm and golden, carrying the scent of salt and sea into the house. It was the kind of day people wrote songs about.
Harris couldn’t feel any of it.
He stood near the window, phone pressed to his ear, eyes unfocused as he stared out at the horizon. Somewhere outside, he knew Lawrence was there—quiet, steady—but Harris couldn’t bring himself to look.
“I am trying,” he said, voice tighter than he intended. “You think I want to turn in nothing for two months? I’ve been working on it.”
His grip on the phone tightened.
The words on the other end blurred into pressure. Expectations. Deadlines. The same questions he couldn’t answer.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he let out a short, bitter laugh. “Everything I write sounds fake. Empty.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing now, restless.
“You want another hit? Then maybe find someone who hasn’t forgotten what a real song feels like.”
Silence.
Or maybe just someone else talking.
Harris barely heard it.
His chest felt tight—too tight.
The dream from the night before clung to him like something he couldn’t wash off.
The noise.
The shouting.
The words thrown at him like they were truth.
‘Fraud.’
‘Plagiarist.’
The words he’d heard multiple times from the person on the other line echoed in his mind.
‘Rejected.’
He swallowed hard.
“No, I’m not quitting,” he muttered, though the words felt thin, unconvincing even to himself. “I just… I don’t know anymore.”
He stopped pacing, gaze dropping to the floor.
“The last song that mattered came out two years ago,” he continued, quieter now. “After that, it’s like something broke.”
His voice cracked slightly, and he hated it.
“I haven’t been able to fix it since. I try, but…” He exhaled slowly, the weight of it pressing down on him. “The words don’t come. And when they do, they don’t mean anything. The melodies don’t stay.”
Another pause.
This time, heavier.
Harris leaned his forehead briefly against the cool glass of the window, eyes slipping shut.
He could still see it.
The crowd. The anger. The certainty in their voices when they called him a lie.
And maybe that was the worst part.
A part of him had started to believe it too.
“Maybe I’m just done,” he said finally, the words quieter than anything else he’d said. “Maybe I already wrote my best song and there’s nothing left after that.”
The line went silent.
Or maybe he just stopped listening.
Harris pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at the screen for a second before ending the call.
The soft thud of it hitting the table echoed louder than it should have.
He stood there for a moment, unmoving.
The sunlight felt distant.
The sea, unreachable.
And somewhere beneath all of it— was the same quiet fear that followed him even into his dreams.
That maybe the world had already heard everything he had to give.
And now— there was nothing left.