Chapter Text
Noah didn’t know what was worse: the silence or the white noise.
The cursor blinked against the dark background of the program, as if mocking him. As if it were saying, “Here I am… waiting for something that never comes.”
The studio was dim, lit only by the bluish glow that cast a ghostly hue over everything. Crumpled papers covered the floor like a snowfall of frustration. They rustled faintly under his feet, a quiet reminder that he hadn’t even managed to throw them away properly.
He stood in the middle of it all, barefoot, a mug of cold coffee in one hand, damp hair falling over his forehead.
Maybe he’d taken a shower to clear his head, to feel a little more awake. It hadn’t worked.
The keyboard in front of him seemed like just another useless object—like the unopened boxes stacked by the door.
Like himself.
He closed his eyes. Listened to the city outside: a distant honk, the rain against the glass.
When did everything start sounding so dull?
He opened his eyes just to stare at one of the boxes. The one labeled, in shaky handwriting:
Old sheet music. Just in case you decide to come back.
He let out a quiet laugh. That just in case felt like a cruel joke. Come back to what?
He took a sip of the coffee and looked out the window. The rain shimmered under the streetlights. The city was still alive.
He wasn’t, not really.
Outside, the rain kept falling. Not just on his window, but on rooftops, stations, and fresh arrivals.
At a dimly lit train station, a boy in a dark coat stepped off the carriage, feeling a weight in his chest—as if his body already knew his life was about to change, even if his mind hadn’t fully caught up.
Hamin took a deep breath. A portfolio in one hand, his phone in the other, a map glowing on the screen guiding him to his new apartment.
It was late. It was raining.
And yet, everything in him said this was the right place.
Or at least, that’s what he wanted to believe.
He walked with purpose, even though doubt echoed inside him. He didn’t know anyone. He didn’t know if people would like his work. He had no idea if he’d manage to fit into the world he’d dreamed of since he was a kid.
He passed a wall covered in posters. One, soaked and peeling from the humidity, drifted down to his feet.
He picked it up without thinking. A flyer:
Creative Gathering – Saturday – Art, Music, Food
In one corner, handwritten in black ink:
Bring who you are, not just what you do.
He smiled.
He wasn’t sure who he was just yet, but he knew what he no longer was.
And that was a start.
From his studio, Noah looked out the window again—just as a taxi pulled up in front of a nearby building.
Someone stepped out, dressed in black, a backpack slung over one shoulder, their face hidden beneath rain-soaked bangs.
It lasted only a second.
Outside, the city moved on.
Inside, something in him—without knowing it—had started to shift.
There was still no sound. Still no melody.
But very soon, he was going to hear it.