Chapter 3: The Weight of Sound
Kael's room felt smaller tonight, the walls pressing in as he sat cross-legged on the floor, guitar cradled in his lap. The strings bit into his fingertips, raw from hours of practice, and his shoulders ached from hunching over. His phone lay face-up beside him, SoundSphere open, the Untitled (First Try) clip now at forty listens and a dozen comments. Most were kind, a few critical—"Sounds amateur, keep practicing"—but each one landed like a stone in his chest, heavy and real.
He hadn't played Echoes of Somewhere today. Instead, he'd been chasing his own sound, piecing together fragments of melody and lyrics. The chords were coming easier now, but his voice—thin and unsteady—betrayed him. He'd recorded another clip, deleted it, tried again. Nothing felt right. The spark from yesterday was still there, but it flickered under a growing weight: Who am I kidding? I'm no Veyl.
His phone buzzed, snapping him out of his spiral. Mira again: "Yo, your clip's getting traction! Saw some randos sharing it. You gonna drop another?" Kael's pulse quickened, a mix of thrill and dread. He typed back, "Maybe. It's trash though." Her reply was instant: "Shut up. It's YOU. That's what makes it good." He stared at the words, his throat tight. Mira's faith was a lifeline, but it also scared him. What if he let her down?
He set the guitar aside and stood, stretching his stiff limbs. His reflection caught in the window—messy hair, tired eyes, a kid playing at something he didn't understand. His father's voice echoed unbidden: "Hobbies are fine, Kael, but they don't pay bills. Stick to what you're good at." It was years ago, after Kael had spent a summer sketching comics, only to abandon them when his dad dismissed it as "kid stuff." The memory stung, sharper now. Music wasn't just a hobby. It was… something else. Something he couldn't name yet.
Kael grabbed a glass of water, the cold shocking his dry throat. He paced, the floorboards creaking under his bare feet. The city's pulse thrummed outside—car horns, laughter, life moving on without him. He wanted to be part of it, not just a bystander. The thought of posting another track, of strangers hearing his voice, made his palms sweat. But the alternative—quitting, retreating to his old numbness—was worse.
He sat back down, picking up the guitar. His fingers trembled as he strummed, the notes soft but deliberate. He closed his eyes, letting the sound fill the room. This time, he didn't try to mimic Veyl. He thought of the ache in his chest, the years of drifting, the fear of being nothing. Words spilled out, rough and unpolished:
"I'm a ghost in my own skin / Screaming soft where no one's been…"
His voice cracked, but he kept going, the melody shifting into something raw, jagged. It wasn't perfect, but it was true. He recorded it in one take, his heart pounding so loud he was sure the mic caught it. Listening back, he didn't cringe. It was messy, yes, but it felt like him.
He titled the new track "Ghost Notes" and uploaded it to SoundSphere, his hands shaking. No tagline this time—just a single word in the description: "Trying." The moment it went live, panic hit. What if no one cared? What if they hated it? He forced himself to close the app and tossed his phone onto the bed.
A knock at the door startled him. His mom's voice, soft but firm: "Kael? You've been in there all day. Everything okay?" He froze, the guitar still in his lap. She didn't know about the music, the clips, any of it. Part of him wanted to tell her, to share this fragile thing he was building. But the words caught in his throat. "Yeah, I'm fine," he called back, his voice tighter than he meant.
Her footsteps faded, and Kael exhaled, his chest heavy. He wasn't ready to explain this—not to her, not to anyone. Music was his now, a secret he wasn't sure he could share. But as he glanced at his phone, a notification lit up: "New comment on Ghost Notes." He hesitated, then opened it.
"This hits different. Like you're bleeding through the mic. More pls."
Kael's breath hitched. Someone heard him. Really heard him. The weight in his chest didn't vanish, but it shifted, making room for something new—something like hope. He picked up the guitar again, his sore fingers ready to try once more.
To be continued…
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