The melody began before she was fully awake—a gentle, ascending piano chord that nudged rather than startled.

Aria's hand moved instinctively, silencing the phone on the nightstand. For a moment, she lay still, letting the unfamiliar geometry of the room settle around her. It was her second morning in the apartment, and the space still held a kind of held-breath quality, as if it were waiting for her to make a sudden noise.

Grayish light filtered through the pale curtains, thinner than she was used to. The air smelled of fresh paint and the distinct, dry scent of cardboard boxes that still sat, tape-sealed, in the corner.

Sitting up, she brushed her hair from her face. A half-open suitcase lay near the wardrobe, its contents spilling out in a cascade of fabric, while a stack of books anchored the floor beside her bed like a small paper fortress. First days usually arrived with a sharp edge of anxiety, but this one felt different. It felt like a blank page.

The floorboards were cool, almost shocking against her bare feet as she padded into the living area. The sun hadn't fully broken through the clouds yet, leaving the room in a cool, muted wash.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed a fluorescent, mechanical tune. A bright square of yellow disrupted the matte gray surface of the appliance.

Milk's in the wrong place, sorry. Welcome back <3 —Maya

Aria smiled, peeling the sticky note off and resticking it inside a cabinet door—a small, secret talisman of familiarity. She moved through the ritual of breakfast with mechanical precision, needing the routine to ground her. Toast, multigrain. A smear of avocado, a pinch of black salt.

The guest room door remained closed, the space untouched for now, waiting for her parents' visit later in the year. It was a quiet comfort, knowing that part of her world had a place reserved here, too.

She ate cross-legged on the beige sofa, a napkin tucked over her knee, watching the street below wake up. Across the road, a neighbor hung striped laundry on a balcony; a cyclist wobbled with a cello strapped to their back.

There was a time when a morning like this would have been consumed by rehearsal—running through potential conversations, mapping out tram routes in a panic. Now, there was just the quiet intake of breath.

She checked the clock. 7:14.

Back in her room, the decision of what to wear felt weighted. She chose a black skirt that skimmed her knees, a sleeveless olive turtleneck, and a tan linen blazer to tie the silhouette together. In the tall mirror Maya had helped wedge against the wall, Aria caught her own eye.

She looked... capable. The lines of her reflection were clearer than they had been a year ago. Less blurred by hesitation.

Her bag was already packed by the door. She checked the contents one last time: lunchbox (rice and stir-fry tofu), a container of grapes, her wallet, and her new internship ID nestled next to her old university badge. Two eras, sitting side by side in the lining of her bag.

Just as she reached for the door handle, her phone buzzed against her palm.

Ma: Good morning, Aru. First day – make it a good one. Eat properly, okay? Let me know how it goes.

Aria typed back, her thumb moving with instinctive care: I'm leaving now. Wish me luck.

Before she could lock the screen, a second notification slid into view. The name made her pulse kick up a strange, syncopated rhythm.

Reyhaan: Don't trip over your own thoughts today. Or your heels. Or both.

Then another bubble, immediate and reassuring: You'll be fine. You've got this.

She stared at the screen, a warmth blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with the apartment's heating. He had paused, apparently, because a third text appeared a moment later.

Reyhaan: P.S. Someone will definitely try to steal your lunch. I hope they appreciate the effort. I know I would.

A laugh escaped her, short and soft. The tension in her shoulders, which she hadn't realized she was carrying, unspooled.

Aria: I make no promises about the lunch. But I'll try with the heels. Thanks. :)

She hesitated, the cursor blinking, before adding: Wish me luck back?

Pocketing the phone, she slipped on her mules and checked the lock twice. The stairwell smelled of damp concrete and morning air, but as she stepped out onto the street, the city greeted her—trams rumbling, voices overlapping, the day already in motion.

She didn't know exactly where she fit into this new rhythm yet. But as she walked toward the tram stop, she realized she wasn't afraid of finding out.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vireo House stood on a lively Rotterdam street; a structure of sharp modern glass grafted onto old Dutch brickwork. It looked intimidatingly professional.

Inside, the staircase curved past wide-paneled windows, the walls lined with framed stills from past projects—grainy forests, high-contrast cityscapes, a pair of dancers caught in a silhouette so sharp it looked like a cut-out. Aria's gaze snagged on a poster titled Where the Earth Bends. The typography was muted, tilting slightly off-axis. It made her feel the way she did when waking from a vivid dream—disoriented, but intrigued.

Her footsteps quieted as she reached the second floor. The house logo glowed softly on the wall just before the automatic door slid open. The reception area was bright and efficient, the smell of coffee hanging in the air.

"Hi," she told the woman at the front desk, fighting the urge to smooth her blazer again. "I'm Aria. It's my first day. Editorial intern."

"Welcome! You're with Team Lina," the receptionist said, handing over a scannable key card. "Take the first left. They're just starting the morning check-in."

Aria scanned the card. The beep was a sharp, validating sound. Just observe, she told herself. You don't have to prove anything today. Just listen.

The office opened up into high ceilings and workspaces arranged in pods. It was a landscape of creative clutter: pinned-up shot lists, color-coded timelines, and mugs in various stages of emptiness.

"Aria, right?"

A woman in her mid-thirties turned from a whiteboard covered in scribbles. Her glasses sat crookedly on her nose, and her curly hair was pinned to one side with a pen. "I'm Lina. Editor and your not-so-scary supervisor. Welcome."

"Thank you," Aria said, gripping her bag strap. "It's nice to be here."

"Come on. Your corner is over here."

Her desk was by the window, flanked by dual monitors that looked like towering monoliths. The rest of the team materialized from the woodwork soon after. There was Chiara, an animation specialist with green-tipped hair who immediately offered Aria a gummy bear; Dev, the archive specialist who spoke in a soft monotone; and Jasper, a guy with a lopsided grin and a t-shirt featuring an obscure band she actually recognized.

"We're mid-edit on Stages of Dust," Lina explained, tapping a screen. "Short doc on post-lockdown theatre spaces. Two weeks to final export. You'll be on subtitling, metadata entry, and light dialogue copy-editing. Sound okay?"

"Yes," Aria said, pulling out her notebook. "Happy to start wherever."

The next few hours were a blur of technical onboarding. Lina walked her through the server hierarchy, the color codes for voiceovers, the specific way they named files. Aria absorbed it all, her pen flying across the page, sketching icons and workflow diagrams.

"Don't be afraid to ask weird questions," Chiara leaned over to whisper. "That's how you survive Jasper."

"Or become him," Dev murmured from behind a wall of monitors.

"It's all part of my legacy plan," Jasper retorted.

Aria smiled, slipping her headphones on. The screen lit up with the project timeline—a complex tapestry of video tracks and audio waveforms. She began to read the first sequence. The waveforms pulsed faintly beneath a monologue about empty stages and the smell of dust.

By the afternoon, the room's rhythm had settled into her bones. It was a symphony of keystrokes, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the occasional burst of laughter.

It felt... right.

Not easy, perhaps, but fitting.

That evening, sitting on her rug with a plate of pasta, she messaged the group chat.

Maya: So? First day? Give us everything.

Aria: Vireo House is beautiful. Chaotic, but smart. I did subtitles and archive tagging. Got teased by an editor named Jasper. Chiara and Lina run the show.

Reyhaan: They sound exactly like people who would survive in a submarine or start a pirate radio.

Kian: Or run a theatre cult. (also: congrats!)

Aria: Haha. You're not wrong.

She smiled at the screen. One day down.

A small beginning, yes. But something in her told her she'd found a rhythm worth learning.