*CHAPTER TWO*
*Knocking on Silence*
I stood outside his door longer than I should have.
Too long. Long enough for my thoughts to start circling in ways I couldn't control.
My hand hovered over the wood, fingers curled into a loose fist. The air smelled faintly of dust and old varnish, the kind of scent that clings to stairwells in buildings like this. My other hand twisted the end of my sleeve, pulling at the threads until I almost tore one loose.
I thought I heard something inside—maybe a chair moving across the floor, maybe a footstep. Maybe it was only my imagination.
What was I even doing?
Was I really going to knock on a stranger's door just because he played a song?
Not just *a* song. Jonah's song. That mattered. That was the part I couldn't ignore, no matter how much I told myself this was foolish.
Still, it felt silly.
I almost walked away. Almost let it go. But I couldn't move.
Instead, I knocked once. Then twice.
No answer.
I waited. Bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted iron. My ears strained for the sound of footsteps, of anything, but all I heard was the hollow quiet pressing in.
I Knocked again—three quick taps, uneven and nervous.
Still nothing.
The silence stretched too long. I could feel it pressing against my skin, crawling down the back of my neck. I told myself this was it. That I should turn, that I should let it go. That there was no reason to stand here embarrassing myself in front of a locked door.
Just as I turned to leave, the door slowly creaked open.
A pair of eyes looked at me—dark, guarded. They didn't blink. Just stared.
Sharp eyes. Like they saw more than you wanted them to.
"You're the painter downstairs," he said. His voice was calm and rough, like he didn't use it much.
"Yeah," I said. My throat felt dry. "I'm Em."
The word sounded smaller than I meant it to, as though it shrank in the air between us.
He didn't smile. Didn't soften. Didn't ask why I came.
I didn't say anything else.
The silence wasn't heavy. It was heavier than heavy, pressing like a wall between us, but not one either of us seemed ready to push through.
He didn't ask me to stay, but he didn't ask me to leave either.
I stepped forward anyway, just slightly, my eyes catching on the shelf behind him.
There was a photo on his shelf—two people in the background, slightly blurry. I stepped a little closer, drawn in, until he noticed. Of course he noticed.
He didn't stop me. Just watched quietly.
The frame was old. Its glass scratched faintly. The photo a bit faded.
Clear enough for me to see what I wasn't ready to see.
JONAH.
His face. His smile. The light in his eyes.
Alive.
And beside him, an arm slung casually, almost protectively, around his shoulder - LEO'S
My heart sank so quickly it made me dizzy. The floor seemed to tilt again, only this time there was nothing steady beneath me.
I turned to him, breath stuck in my chest, throat locked tight. Somehow, the words still clawed their way out.
"How do you know him?"
Leo didn't react. He didn't blink. Didn't pretend to be surprised. He looked tired—like he'd been waiting for that question.
"I saved you once," he said.
His words fell heavy, sharp enough to cut through the silence.
"And I couldn't save him."
The world seemed to fold in on itself. The hallway, the walls, even the air felt smaller, tighter. The meaning slipped just out of reach, not yet whole, but close enough to bruise.
It didn't make sense. Not yet. Not fully.
But something told me it would.
Leo didn't feel like a stranger anymore.
He felt like a string tied to a memory I hadn't pulled yet, a knot hidden deep that waited for me to tug.
And I didn't know if I was ready.
But I knew I was going to pull it anyway.
Because his eyes were still on me. And for the first time, I realized, he wasn't waiting for me to speak.
He was waiting for me to remember.