The heavy door groaned as Louis eased it open. Morning light cut through the warehouse windows in dusty shafts; motes drifted like glitter in warm air still scented with yesterday’s citrus cleaner. Without amps buzzing or sticks clacking, the place felt hollow—quiet enough to hear the faint hum of the power grid in the walls.

He wove between flight cases and half-wired rigs, phantom echoes of yesterday’s jam nipping at his heels. No sign of Isa. No music—until a gritty rock track drifted from the back garage, layered with a woman’s voice singing along.

Sunlight poured through the rolled-up doors. Two trucks idled side by side, and there—boots splashing in a growing puddle—Isa hosed down a rear fender, hips swaying to the beat. Tank top plastered to sweat-damp skin, cargo shorts streaked with water. She was in her element.

Louis stepped forward just as she spun—and startled.

“Shit!” The hose snapped sideways, soaking him chest-to-knees.

“Hey!” he yelped, stumbling back, drenched.

“You creep up like a ghost and expect not to get blasted?” Isa laughed.

Louis spotted a second hose, lunged, and returned fire. Water arced; Isa squealed, ducked behind a bumper, lobbed a sopping sponge. They skirmished until both were breathless and grinning.

“Truce!” she panted, wiggling dripping fingers.

They coiled hoses in détente. Louis noticed the thick callus ridge along her fingertips—proof the guitar never left her hands.

“You owe me one for my favorite tee,” she said, wringing the fabric. “You’re making coffee.”

He chuckled, flushing. “Fair. How do you take it?”

“I like my coffee like I like my men—so sweet I have to water it down with whiskey.” She winked at his crimson cheeks. “Relax. Black’s fine.”

Inside, he fired up the coffeepot while she ducked away to change. By the time she returned, towel-blotting her hair, the warehouse smelled like roasted beans. She dropped onto the battered couch, mug cradled in both hands.

Silence stretched—comfortable, caffeinated.

“How did all this start?” Louis finally asked. “You, Arven, Sona—this place.”

Isa tapped the rim of her mug, gaze drifting. “Sona didn’t build this for applause,” she said. “She sang because it kept her breathing.”

Louis stayed still.

“They called her Singing Asura after an early gig. She’d walk onstage like she was exorcising something. One night, I passed her room—heard quiet sobs.” Isa’s voice stayed matter-of-fact. “She was staring at that gold heart locket, like she was begging whoever’s inside to answer.”

Louis’s throat tightened.

“People think what drives her is wrath,” Isa went on. “It isn’t. It’s pain that decided to fight back.”

She met his eyes. “There’s an old tale: a man went to war with a god because that god made his child cry. They called it rage. It was love—screaming too loud to be anything else.”

Louis’s hand drifted to Medallion’s neck where it rested on a nearby stand. Warm maple met his fingertips.

“I won’t let her down,” he murmured.

Isa’s expression softened. “Good. We’re not just playing songs out here, Louis. We’re keeping something alive.”

She patted his knee, then popped to her feet with a crack of her back. “Sentiment time’s over. Earn your place, bass boy.”

Sunlight spilled across the rehearsal floor. Isa struck a raw, jagged riff; Louis found a bass pulse beneath it. No charts, only instinct. They looped, fractured, rebuilt, laughing when the groove disintegrated and cheering when it snapped back tighter. Notes ricocheted off steel rafters like sparks in a forge.

“Again,” Isa said, sweat dampening her fringe. They played until afternoon beams angled gold across the dusty concrete.

Finally, she unplugged, rolling her shoulders. “Not bad. You’ve got teeth in your tone.”

“Thanks for the crash course.”

“We all start somewhere.” She tossed him a towel. “Bring any old scraps you’ve written next time—rough is good. We sculpt out of thunder.”

Louis grinned, wiping his face. “I’ll dig them up.”

Twilight settled as they locked up. Streetlights blinked awake, halos trembling in the chill.

His phone buzzed.

Isa: Better not oversleep, orchestra boy. Big surprises tomorrow.

Louis thumbed a reply.

Louis: Wouldn’t miss it.

The warehouse faded behind him, but their new riff still thumped in his bones. Isa’s story of Sona lingered, too—gold locket, silent tears, fire turned outward.

Maybe love was just that: showing up, listening, playing your part in the storm.

Home smelled of garlic and tomato. Mark glanced over a sizzling pan. “How was school?”

“I’m taking a break,” Louis said, hanging his jacket. “Need to figure things out.”

Mark glanced at him, voice softer than usual.

“Life doesn’t give many clean starts, Louis. If this is one of them… make it count.”

Louis looked ahead, steady. “I will.”

Later, ceiling shadows stretched above his bed like bars of a staff. Notes from the day spun there, waiting to be written down. He breathed in, let them settle.

He was becoming someone new—someone stitched together by riffs, by truth, by people who refused to be silent.

And for the first time in years, he liked the song that was forming.