Ethan woke up at 7:03.
On a Saturday.
That alone should've been the warning sign. Weekends were supposed to be sacred: no alarms, no expectations—just silence, symmetry, and cereal. But the house was already buzzing.
And Ethan didn't like buzzing.
"Day's already ruined," he muttered, dragging himself to the piano and pressing a few soft keys. His fingers instinctively found the melody of his favorite composition—something he'd rewritten three times until it felt just right. He called it Clocks.
"Breakfast is ready!" Claire's voice rang from downstairs like a fire drill.
Ethan sighed. So much for peace.
As he opened his bedroom door, he heard Haley in her room across the hall, giggling on the phone. "He's sooo cute, and he totally looked at me twice during Chem—"
Ethan kept walking.
Halfway down the stairs, he spotted Luke in the hallway, wearing a bike helmet outfitted with straws and some kind of juice dispenser. It was leaking.
"Note to self," Luke muttered, inspecting a puddle. "Orange pulp clogs the tubes. Abort mission."
Ethan didn't even ask.
In the living room, Phil was hunched over a laptop, watching a YouTube tutorial titled "Fix Your Washer in 5 Easy Steps (Step 4 is Basically Surgery)." Ethan tried tiptoeing past him.
"Ethannn, buddy!" Phil called out, eyes still on the screen. "I'm gonna need your help after breakfast to fix the washing machine."
"Sure," Ethan replied with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
He had planned to start a new piano piece today. Helping Phil dismantle the Whirlpool 5000 was definitely not part of the creative process.
In the kitchen, Claire was flipping pancakes with the intensity of someone fighting off a rebellion.
"Ethan, sweetie, can you set the table?"
He didn't argue—mostly because he knew it wouldn't help. As he arranged the dishes just right—forks on the left, knives perfectly parallel—he mumbled to himself, "I could've guessed breakfast wasn't actually ready."
That was actually pretty obvious.
Five minutes later, everyone had finally gathered.
Ethan ate six pancakes. Then a seventh. He only meant to have six, but the number bothered him—six wasn't symmetrical. Seven felt right. It was one of his numbers.
"Ethannn, my trusty apprentice!" Phil declared dramatically. "After breakfast, we embark on a noble quest—to conquer the Whirlpool 5000. Spoiler alert: It's mostly buttons and lint."
"Can't wait. Sounds... heroic," Ethan deadpanned, chewing slowly. Ethan wanted to teleport to his room and finally start playing on his piano.
Claire, without looking up, added, "If you break it more than it already is, you're both doing laundry all week. Including Haley's."
Phil leaned over and whispered, "New quest: Don't break anything."
After breakfast, they stood before the laundry room like it was a dungeon. Phil held the flashlight like a sword. "You ready?"
"Yes, Master," Ethan said flatly.
Inside, Phil dove into the machine's backside like a tech archaeologist. "Okay, so if we remove the back panel, we should see the drum motor. Or was that the dryer...?"
Ethan crouched down, staring at the blinking panel. Something was flashing—a tiny icon most people would miss.
"Wait. What's that symbol?" he asked.
He flipped through the manual. "It says the drain filter might be clogged."
"Drain filter? That's a thing?" Phil blinked.
Ethan was already opening the panel near the floor. "Yup. Right here."
He pulled it out. A flood of lint, coins, and what looked suspiciously like one of Luke's Lego swords spilled out.
Phil beamed. "You've got the eye of a true repairman... or maybe a CIA decoder. Either way, I'm impressed."
Ethan just thought, Finally. I can go write.
But as he turned to escape toward his room, Claire's voice rang out again.
"Ethan! Don't even think about disappearing upstairs."
He froze mid-step.
"We're doing the hallway closet today. That one's yours, remember?"
No. He did not remember.
"Since when?" he asked, turning slowly like someone falsely accused.
"Since last week. During dinner. Right after Luke tried to microwave a Pop-Tart in the foil wrapper. Maybe you were too busy arranging your peas into hexagons."
Ethan sighed like it physically hurt. "I was going to write a new song on the piano."
"You'll write later. First, help us solve the Great Dunphy Sock Mystery. There are socks in that closet that don't belong to anyone in this house. That's a code red."
Instead of the soft hum of piano keys, Ethan found himself knee-deep in old shoes, tangled scarves, ancient board games, gift wrap tubes, and one tennis racket that might've been cursed.
Luke wandered past, sipping from his helmet. "If you find my drone in there, don't touch it. It bites."
Ethan muttered, "I was born into the wrong family."
Claire handed him a garbage bag like she was issuing battlefield rations. "Be ruthless. If it doesn't spark joy, it sparks trash."
He pulled out an old hoodie that smelled like dust and confusion. Probably Phil's. Into the bag it went.
Two hours passed. Ethan ended up with dust on his face, a Lego stuck to his sock, and an existential crisis over the sheer number of unclaimed mittens.
Finally, Claire peeked in and smiled. "Good job, hon. That looks way better."
Ethan stood up straighter than expected.
He made it to his piano at last. The house was—mercifully—quiet. He sat down, cracked his fingers, and placed them on the keys.
Then came:
– Haley shouting into a phone call about someone named Bryce.
– Phil watching a nature documentary about mating sloths at full volume.
– Alex practicing violin scales.
– Luke, still tinkering with his helmet, now testing soda through it. It fizzed violently.
Ethan exhaled through his nose, ready to give up—until something clicked.
Instead of resisting the noise, he embraced it. He let the chaos pour through him. Fingers moved faster. Louder. Unfiltered.
And somehow, a melody formed.
It was raw and weird and filled with messy rhythms. But it worked. It was alive.
He called it Some Nights—and for once, the madness made sense.