"It rushes."

Reyhaan dropped his pen onto the lyric sheet. "The second verse. It hits the ear and vanishes before it has time to land."

In the background, an ambient loop Ilan had been tweaking pulsed—a low, grainy hum that filled the soundproofed room like pressurized air. Afternoon sun cut through the high windows, heating the dust motes dancing above the mixing console, but the amber light did little to thaw the frustration in Reyhaan's chest.

Silas, legs crossed on the worn leather couch, rested his chin on the body of his acoustic guitar. "So what's the fix? Drag the tempo?"

"No," Reyhaan murmured, staring at the ink scratches on the page. "It's not the speed. It's the weight. It needs to hesitate."

The studio felt lived-in today, a chaotic ecosystem of cables and coffee cups. Ilan was counting beats under his breath near the window; Jay lay sprawled on the rug, balancing a precarious stack of coasters on his stomach; Lucian occupied his usual perch on a speaker case, hoodie pulled up, eyes tracking the room with hawk-like laziness. The air tasted of cedar polish and the stale, herbal scent of tea forgotten hours ago.

"We could strip the bridge," Ilan suggested, not looking up from his notebook. "Or open the verse with just the vocal and a texture pad. Give it room to breathe."

"No textures," Jay groaned from the floor, the coasters wobbling. "The last track had four and a half textures and zero groove. I'm begging you."

Lucian didn't even blink. "You are the half texture, Jay."

A crumpled napkin sailed through the air, bouncing harmlessly off a cymbal stand with a tinny ping.

"Focus," Reyhaan said, though a smile threatened the corner of his mouth. "Jay's right about the groove, but the emotion is flat. We need a line that stops the listener. Right here." He tapped the paper.

He picked up the pen again, crossing out a generic rhyme and writing a new line beneath it. His handwriting was jagged, hurried.

He circled it once.

"You stayed like silence might mean something."

The room quieted. Not the heavy, awkward silence of a mistake, but the resonant hush of something clicking into place. Silas let his hand fall still over the strings. Ilan stopped tapping his foot.

"That's it," Ilan said softly.

Reyhaan stared at the words. He hadn't meant to write a thesis on his own life, but there it was—ink drying on the page. Silence might mean something. It was the lesson of the last few months, taught to him in a bookstore, in a car, in the quiet corners of an apartment he was learning to share.

Lucian snapped his laptop shut. "You know what carries that line?" He looked directly at Reyhaan. "The ocean track. From yesterday. The one you forced me to listen to while you stared out my window like a tragic poet."

Reyhaan blinked, caught off guard. "You hated that track."

"I said it was moody," Lucian corrected, standing up. "I didn't say it was bad. Hand me your phone."

Reyhaan hesitated, the device heavy in his pocket, but he unlocked it and passed it over. Lucian plugged it into the auxiliary board with the practiced ease of someone who knew Reyhaan's filing system better than Reyhaan did.

The speakers crackled once, then the sound filled the room.

It wasn't a melody. It was a texture—a long, slow inhale of sound. It sounded like waves, but distorted, filtered through glass and distance. Beneath the wash of water, a low hum vibrated, not quite a drone, not quite a chord. It was the sound of a memory trying to surface.

Marmoris. That's what he'd named it.

"Okay," Silas admitted, nodding slowly. "That works."

"What is that low-end?" Jay asked, sitting up and abandoning the coasters. "Is it... underwater?"

"It's a field recording from the port, slowed down by eight hundred percent," Reyhaan said quietly. "And a train passing in the distance."

Lucian smirked. "See? Moody."

"Let's lay it under the verse," Silas said, already tuning his guitar to match the pitch. "Just the first loop."

Reyhaan took his phone back, but he didn't lock the screen. The waveform played out, a visual representation of a feeling he hadn't been able to speak aloud.

Jay flopped back down. "Just don't call the song 'Melt Between Hours.' It sounds like bad cologne."

"'Distance Doesn't Echo,'" Reyhaan corrected.

The session dissolved back into its natural rhythm—layered voices, the scratch of graphite, the squeak of a chair. It felt like the old days, but different. Better. There was no desperate rush to prove they still existed. They were just... making things.

During a break, while Jay and Silas argued over the merits of a specific synth patch, Reyhaan stepped away from the console. His phone had buzzed against his thigh minutes ago, a phantom sensation he'd been ignoring until the work settled.

Aria's name sat at the top of his notifications.

[1:03 P.M.] Aria: Did you eat today? Just wondering. Also, that sandwich you brought last time? Where was it from? I think it's become my new personality.

He scrolled down.

[1:10 P.M.] Aria: Oh. Also... The track last night – felt like it knew how to drift and stay. That makes no sense. Sorry – maybe it's just one of those feelings that only makes sense when you're not trying to explain it.

And then, just now: [2:30 P.M.] Aria: I hope you're eating real food and not just those sesame snacks again.

A smile broke across his face—unbidden, unguarded. It started in his chest and worked its way up.

He typed back: Studio Day. Had real lunch, can confirm. Will tell you about the sandwich source later. And your words always make sense. Will talk when I'm free.

He checked his other messages. One from Ayaan—a photo of a nearly finished studio rig with the caption: All cleared. Should be around by the end of the month. Also, thanks for sending Kian. That guy's chaotic good.

Reyhaan shook his head, the smile lingering.

Drift and stay.

That was exactly it. That was how she moved through his life now—not colliding with him, but drifting alongside, staying when everyone else pulled away. It terrified him, how much he wanted her to keep staying.

He opened his email next. A notification from the sound design competition—the one Kian had bullied him into entering.

Winner.

No fanfare. Just the word, stark and simple.

He stared at it. A few months ago, he wouldn't have believed he had a voice without a melody. Now, he was winning awards for the background noise.

He took a screenshot and sent it to the group chat with Aria, Maya, and Kian.

Reyhaan: Kian promised to give a dramatic speech in my place if I won. And cry a little. I expect video proof. Certificate demands a bow.

He slid the phone back into his pocket and looked up. Lucian was looping the ocean track under Ilan's riff. The sound was haunting, beautiful, and anchored.

The studio buzzed with a gentle, creative friction. No urgency. Just movement.

Reyhaan looked down at his lyric sheet. You stayed like silence might mean something.

He folded the page and tucked it into his back pocket. He stayed in the corner a moment longer, listening to the track bloom, letting the realization settle in his bones. He wasn't just writing songs about silence anymore. He was living in one that finally felt like home.

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

The corridor outside the studio was a study in sterility—white panels, recessed lighting, the hum of high-end ventilation. It was the kind of silence that cost money.

Reyhaan's boots made no sound on the carpeted floor, but the vibration of the bass still lingered in his soles. He felt unspooled, tired in the good way that came after creating something real.

He thumbed a text to Ayaan: When do you get here exactly?

Then he stepped into the elevator. The doors glided shut, sealing him in with his own reflection—hair messy, eyes tired, but clear.

B1. B2. B3.

The elevator opened onto the underground lot with a soft chime that echoed too loudly in the concrete cavern.

The air down here was different—still, cold, smelling of tire rubber and damp cement. It was a dead zone for sound, the acoustics flattened by low ceilings and thick pillars.

Reyhaan stepped out. His keys jingled in his hand—a sharp, lonely sound.

To his right, Silas's matte-black van sat like a monolith. A few rows down, Jay's electric bike was parked at a jaunty angle. His own car was further back, near the west pillar where the motion sensor light always flickered before dying.

He began to walk. The rhythmic clack-clack of his boots was the only noise in the world.

Then—a sound.

Small. Metallic. A clink, followed by a faint, rolling grit. Like a tool dropped on concrete, or a bottle kicking across the floor.

It came from the deep shadows near the storage units.

Reyhaan stopped.

His hearing, tuned all day to micro-adjustments and frequencies, spiked. The hairs on his arms rose. It wasn't the sound of a car settling or a pipe expanding. It was the sound of movement.

He stood perfectly still, scanning the darkness between the pillars.

"Hello?"

His voice bounced back at him, flat and unanswered.

A draft touched the side of his face. Cold. Out of place in a sealed underground lot.

He turned his head slowly. Shadows stretched long and distorted under the flickering overhead strip. A glint of chrome from a side mirror caught his eye, but nothing else.

He took a step. Then another. His grip on his keys tightened until the metal bit into his palm.

The silence here wasn't the comfortable kind he shared with Aria. It was predatory. Heavy. It felt like the air had eyes.

Ding.

The elevator behind him chimed again.

The sound shattered the tension like glass. Doors slid open. Voices spilled out—loud, laughing, complaining about coffee orders. Two interns from the label and a logistics guy pushing a cart of gear.

Reyhaan let out a breath he didn't know he'd encased in iron. He stepped back from the pillar, rolling his shoulders to shake off the unease.

"Long day, Reyhaan?" one of the interns called out, spotting him.

He nodded, forcing a casual wave. "Something like that."

He turned back toward his car, walking faster now. He didn't look toward the storage units again. He didn't check the shadows. But the skin on the back of his neck prickled, a phantom weight pressing down on him.

He unlocked the car, the chirp of the alarm loud and reassuring. He slid into the driver's seat and locked the doors immediately.

The engine purred to life, vibrating through the seat, grounding him.

Reyhaan looked into the rearview mirror.

Nothing. Just the empty concrete expanse and the closing elevator doors.

He put the car in gear and drove toward the ramp, the tires squealing faintly on the smooth floor. But even as he merged into the evening traffic of Rotterdam, the feeling clung to him.

A beat too long. A silence that hadn't felt empty.

He reached for the volume dial and turned the music up, drowning out the memory of that metallic click in the dark. But the frequency of it stayed in his head, a discordant note in an otherwise perfect day.