After weeks of rehearsals, delays, and nerves, the night had finally arrived.

Down by Çalış Beach, just off the curve where the promenade meets the sand and cafés spill out toward the water, the stage lights flickered over damp shoreline air.

The wind held its breath so the stage lights dared not flicker. The sea lay beneath the moon like a dark promise, flat and expectant. Beyond the makeshift stage, the shallow surf of Çalış Beach rolled in slow, flat waves, barely breaking as they touched the shore.

People huddled in wool coats, paper cups steaming in their hands, laughter rising in silver clouds. Someone said it felt like an omen—music by the water before the new year. Somewhere behind them, vendors were still closing up carts selling roasted corn and simit, stacking metal trays while glancing toward the stage between customers.

Backstage, Mira adjusted the strap of her bass for the third time and peered through a gap in the curtains. The crowd stretched farther than she'd expected, packed along the railings overlooking the water. Beside her, Qi Shi spun a drumstick between her fingers. Qi Shi's Tunnel Vision tank top hung loose over a shredded black shirt, the brand's signature chaos somehow looking effortless on her.

Mira stole another glance at her. She looked fine. Better than fine, actually. Color had returned to her face, and the shadows that had lingered beneath her eyes had faded enough that no one else would notice them. Relief loosened something in Mira's chest.

"Stop staring," Qi Shi said without looking up.

"You sure you're okay?"

Qi Shi snorted. "For the hundredth time, yes."

"Good."

And Mira meant it.

There had been a point when she wasn't sure Qi Shi would make it to rehearsals at all. Yet somehow she'd shown up to every one of them, stubborn as ever, drumming through exhaustion and refusing sympathy. Tonight she stood behind her kit like she belonged there.

Demian appeared with his guitar slung over one shoulder. The battered Boris Bidjan Saberi jacket he wore had become almost legendary among local fans. It looked as though it had survived a dozen lives alongside him, sleeves worn smooth from years of gigs and cigarette smoke.

"You two ready?"

"No," Mira said.

"Perfect," he replied with a grin.

Mira hadn’t planned to play this song yet. It lived only in her room, half-formed, half-stolen. Qi Shi had pressed her wrist until she agreed. Demian smiled that slow, sure smile and said, Trust it. For once, she did.

By the time she stepped onto the stage, the audience had compacted itself—students draped over railings, locals perched on low walls, a few strangers drawn by curiosity or fate. “Eve! Eve! Eve!” they chanted, a tide of voices.

Mira inhaled. The first note rolled out, low and molten, vibrating beneath her boots. The bass cradled the melody, steady as a heartbeat. Behind them the sea café glowed, its yellow windows quivering in the hush.

Demian shifted the mic like it belonged to his hand. Qi Shi cracked her knuckles, rolling a drumstick between pale fingers. They weren’t famous—yet. But people came early anyway. And stayed. Somewhere between the second verse and the chorus, the sea leaned closer, as if straining to catch each tremor of sound.

They hit the chorus together—Demian’s voice thread-rough, Mira’s a clear blade—and it sliced through the night. The audience exhaled, entranced by the melody, unsettling but achingly beautiful.

“That was ‘Burn Me Beautiful’ by Eve—make some noise, everybody!” Demian’s grin flashed in the stage lights as Mira’s fingers danced along her fretboard. The bass still felt new, like a secret finally confessed.

A memory surged: middle school music hall, a stiff piano bench, her fingers gliding over keys while her chest hollowed out. Evan in the doorway listening.

“You’re good,” he had said. Then, after a beat, “But you’re holding back.”

She bristled. He’d held her gaze. “Have you tried something else?”

Teachers wanted her to improve. Parents wanted her to continue. Friends wanted her to perform. Nobody had ever suggested that before. She hated him for asking it then. Now, bass pressed to her body, vibration coursing through bone, dressed in tartan, silver hardware, and the Vivienne Westwood pieces she'd once stared at through a screen, she knew exactly what he meant. She felt like herself.

“Now everyone, our band will perform a new song RAGE that hasn’t been released yet!”

The audience cheered.

Now, under low lights with the sea breathing at their backs, that spark ignited into steel. The bass hummed shy, the drums followed—steady, deliberate—and Demian’s guitar slid in like an echo she’d been chasing her whole life. Their new song circled itself, strange and winding, refusing any tidy resolution.

It felt like standing on a cliff in gale-force wind. Like aching for something forbidden. Mira closed her eyes.

She remembered her first step into that dusty music store: no plan nor courage, just a hollow ache. Guitars hung on the walls and vinyls stared back with defiance. Demian had been behind the counter then—hair wrapped tight, a cigarette’s ember glowing at his lip—humming to crackling speakers.

“Looking for something?” he’d asked.

“A guitar, maybe.”

He handed her one. She plucked a string. Then he slid a bass into her hands. “Try this.”

“I don’t play bass.”

“You don’t play guitar either,” he said, eyebrow raised.

She frowned. “hey!.”

He winked. “I’m Demian.”

“Mira,” she’d said. “Former…pianist.”

“Maybe you'd enjoy this more.”

Mira stared at him.

She left at closing time—and returned the next day. Something in the way he saw her set her spark aflame. ____________________________________________________

She leaned into the next progression. Her fingers grew bolder, surer. The song swelled, an ocean in its own right, and for a moment it felt less like they were playing to the sea than with it.

Through the viewfinder of his camera, Evan saw her first. He had taken four pictures so far—each flash echoing like a heartbeat. He adjusted the lens, tracked her profile: the way her hair caught moonlight, the arch of her back as she bent into a riff. 

And then he saw her: the stranger at the edge of the crowd, dark hair plastered to her neck, features softened by mist—everything beautiful and wrong about her. Only the thin scar by her left eye resisted the glamour, pale and resolute. He clicked again, breath catching in his throat. Her head tilted slightly toward the stage, but her eyes weren’t on Mira.

Evan zoomed in.

Her lips moved.

He adjusted focus, narrowing the frame, reading what the lens alone couldn’t hide.

Thank you, Mira.

A pause.

Her mouth curved faintly.

For this golden opportunity.

The words weren’t spoken to anyone around her.

They were spoken like a secret finally confirmed.

Evan’s finger hovered over the shutter.

The world around her kept cheering, unaware.

The song ended. The crowd exploded. Mira’s last note trembled into silence, leaving him trembling behind the camera. The necklace at his throat glowed hot, too hot, but he barely noticed. He stared through the lens at the stranger stepping back into vanishing.shadow. 

He lowered the camera.

Behind him, Joseph nudged him. “Evan, you okay?”

He blinked. “I saw her.”

Joseph followed his gaze into the dissipating crowd. “Who?”

“That woman,” Evan said. “The owner of the book.”

Joseph frowned. “Show me.”

Mira and her band slipped into conversations with fans and organizers. The night air buzzed with afterglow.

The café sat directly along the Çalış promenade, where tourists usually lingered for sunset drinks facing the same water they were now performing beside.

Joseph pushed the door open; the bell tinkled, lonely. “Hello?” he called. Empty chairs perched like ghosts. The back door stood ajar, a shaft of moonlight slicing the floorboards. The sea’s murmur drifted in, restless, hungry.

Evan squared his shoulders. “She was here.”

“I’m sure.”

They moved into the kitchen. A single mug sat in the sink, water dripping like a heartbeat. Evan washed it anyway, hands trembling. Joseph leaned against the counter, waiting. Outside, the ocean thumped against the shore, A ferry horn echoed faintly, before dissolving into the night air.

Evan dried his hands. “She spoke lines the same lines from the poem.”

Joseph’s eyes widened. “Mira wouldn't steal a poem just to make a song,that’s not like her”

“Every word.”

They exchanged that look again: something’s wrong, but what?

Joseph exhaled. “She didn’t mean to, right?” 

Evan nodded.

“I’m glad Qishi is okay though”

“right.” Evan agreed, still not comfortable enough to talk about Qishi.

Still, the air pressed in. Joseph’s gaze dropped to the floor—and locked on a book lying open amid a scatter of pens. The blue cover had darkened, bruised. The pages fluttered, though no breeze stirred.

“That wasn’t there earlier,” Joseph said.

Evan’s stomach clenched. “If she’d been here, she’d have taken it.”

They knelt. On the open page, an intricate circle bloomed—uneven lines, mysterious markings weaving in and out, an alphabet of shadows. The ink pulsed, alive.

They shared a breathless moment—and felt the world tilt beneath them. Evan held onto the wardrobe while Joseph held onto him, it felt as if they’re being sucked in.

The sailor tried grabbing and holding them back but both disappeared in a blink of an eye.