Page 100 of The Sound Between Us

The band is already there when I walk in. Mark waves from behind the board. Jamie lifts a coffee cup in greeting. Dex is tuning, lost in his own world of rhythms and precision.

I sit in silence, expecting the hollow ache of creative paralysis to return. Expecting to retreat back into the nothing that’s defined us for the past three years.

But then the music comes.

Not polished. Not planned. Raw. Sharp. Bleeding.

I reach for the acoustic, and the song writes itself.

The melody pours out, naked, desperate, unfiltered. My voice breaks on certain words, catching on the jagged edges of what I’ve done. What I’ve lost.

It’s about golden light and broken trust. About promises I’ll never get to make and locks I should have changed. About the difference between collecting people and actually letting them in.

When the last chord fades, the room goes still.

No one speaks.

Not even the equipment hums. The studio itself holds its breath.

I set the guitar down carefully. My hands are shaking.

Jamie’s the first to move. He doesn’t speak. Just slowly lowers his head into his hands, elbows braced on his knees.

“Jesus Christ,” he says finally, his voice thick, almost hoarse. “That wasn’t a song. That was a confession.”

Dex stares at me. “Where the fuck has that been?”

He’s not joking. He’s not even mad. He’s just... stunned. Unsteady.

“That’s not Elementary,” he says, quieter this time. “That’s not... us.”

Mark exhales audibly, a sound somewhere between awe and heartbreak. “It’s you, though. That’s the thing. I’ve never heard you in your music before. Not like this.”

He’s already reaching for the talkback mic, his producer brain trying to catch up to his heart. “I want gospel singers on the bridge. Maybe St. Jude’s. Strings, too. Let it breathe. We’ll build it slow, give it space to ache. Harrison, this is—” He swallows. “This is heartbreak made audible.”

Henry—predictably—sees dollar signs first.

“We get this polished and to the label by end of week, this could kill as a comeback single. The narrative alone—Jesus. Heartbreak, redemption, raw talent re-emerging. Do we have photos from this session? Video? We could⁠—”

“No.” I cut him off sharply, the word ricocheting through the silence.

Henry freezes. “Harrison⁠—”

“No one uses this song. Not yet. Not without her.”

The band glances at each other, suddenly tense again.

Jamie watches me carefully. “This one’s personal.”

I nod. Barely. My throat’s too tight to speak.

Because this isn’t content. It’s not a product. It’s not a PR angle.

It’s Seren.

It’s everything I couldn’t say when she was still here. Everything I ruined, pressed into melody because I don’t know how else to hold it.

Dex looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. Just places a hand on my shoulder. Solid. Wordless.