*CHAPTER ONE*
*I Don't Talk Much Anymore*
Since the tragic incident that happened a year ago.
I don't talk much anymore. Not out loud, at least.
People think it's part of the artist thing. The brooding, the mystery, the whole silent-painter-in-a-studio vibe. I let them think that. It's easier than explaining the truth.
But it's not that. Not really.
It's just… when the person who knew your voice best is gone, speaking feels loud in all the wrong ways. Every word tastes wrong. Every sentence feels like you're borrowing something that doesn't belong to you anymore.
I hear Jonah in my head more than I hear anyone else. His laugh—loud and careless. His "you're being dramatic, Em," whenever I spiraled into something small and made it big. The way he used to knock on my bedroom door twice, pause, then once more. Like a code. Our code. A rhythm that said, *I'm here. You're not alone.*
He's been gone a year.
A full year of pretending I'm okay when I'm not. A full year of answering "I'm fine" to questions no one really wants the answer to. A full year of breathing in paint fumes and grief like they're the same thing.
I've turned my sadness, my pain, my silence into art. My silence into color. Grief has a texture now. And sometimes, when I look at my work too long, I feel like I'm staring into myself, because its the only thing that makes sense anymore.
And then, this morning, a man moved in upstairs.
I only saw him for a second—tall, lean, carrying a record player and three cardboard boxes. That was it. He didn't smile. Didn't nod. Just disappeared up the stairs like the world didn't exist behind him. Like people weren't worth seeing.
But I felt something. I don't know what. Something small but sharp, like a pull. Something shift, quiet but certain. Like recognition without a reason.
By afternoon, I was painting again. Not for money. Not for the gallery. Just… painting. Like I used to. Color pouring from me like I couldn't hold it in any longer. My hands didn't stop moving. I didn't think. I just let it pour.
And then, around 3 a.m., I heard it.
Music.
Real music. Vinyl. That warm, low kind. The sound that has cracks and breath and time inside it.
A song Jonah used to love.
I sat up in bed, heart clawing at my ribs. My fingers shook when I pulled the blanket off. I walked barefoot to my studio window, pushed it open just enough. The night was still. And from upstairs… that song.
The notes floated down like ghosts.
Familiar. Haunting. Alive.
I whispered his name before I could stop myself.
"Jonah…"
No answer, of course. Just the hum of the night. Just that song and that silence.
But it was enough.
Enough to make me want to see him—the man upstairs.
To know who plays a dead boy's favorite song in the middle of the night.
To ask *why now?*
*Why that song?*
*Why does your silence sound like someone I lost?*
Tomorrow, I'll go up.
Tomorrow, I'll knock.
But tonight… I'll remember how it feels to feel something again.
Even if it hurts.
Especially if it hurts.
What if he knows something?
WHAT IF THAT SONG WASN'T AN ACCIDENT?
AND WHAT IF THE MAN UPSTAIRS... ISN'T A STRANGER AT ALL?