Page 56 of Graves

It should have been Ben’s room, but since we always slept in mine, this one stayed empty.

What surprises me most is that my painting is still hanging on the wall. I never knew what to do with it. I didn’t want it in the living room, so it ended up here.

“I don’t belong in the public eye,” Koh says, voice strained. “Trust me, nothing good comes from it.”

It’s eerie how calmly he says it. The composure is fake, but it somehow covers the rage from earlier.

“The way you say that sounds dangerous.”

Koh nods sadly. “It probably is.” He turns away and sighs. “You’re destructive chaos, but I’m the one bringing disaster into your house.”

I stand there for a while, studying his back. He looks defeated and tired. “I’m sorry. I’ll see what I can do.”

I leave the room, lost.

The more I think I know Koh, the harder he becomes to understand. The man probably has more secrets than I do.

But what kind of comparison is that?

I’m an open book to the whole world, and I’m still trying to figure out how to seal myself shut again.

11

—

Aran

The rehearsal room had always been a place of peace and freedom for me, but since I’ve been back and everything is just about getting through these five shows. Even this safe space has turned into a prison. I stand between my bandmates, gripping the mic stand, trying to summon memories of better times, but I can’t. Maybe it’s the headache that’s worse today than the days before—a stabbing pain that feels like two nails drilling from my ears into my brain, hammering against my forehead.

I’ve never really struggled with headaches. I was in pretty good health most of the time, despite loading myself up with alcohol and drugs. The worst hangovers would still pass eventually.

These headaches are something else. Since I came back to New York, they’ve been clinging to me like a curse.

So far, they’ve been manageable, and I went as far as politely turning down Fox’s offer to get me some painkillers. But they’ve reached a new level. Not even the loud music can distract me anymore.

While Mike plays his guitar solo, I massage my forehead and squeeze my eyes shut, nearly missing my cue. It’s been like this all day. We started rehearsing at ten-thirty, took a break to eat, and kept going. It’s already five o’clock and my head is pounding. At least we managed to rework the setlist, so half the songs are new.

If we have to play five shows to fulfill the contract, we might as well do it right instead of repeating the same set five times like robots.

It’s the last song on the list, and I can’t wait to get out of here. As Liam finishes with an epic drum flourish, Mike wrings out the final distorted notes, and Sam lets the bass fade. My body is already too stiff to waste energy on rockstar moves no one here will see anyway. I know what I have to do on stage. I can save my strength for that.

“That’s it, right?” Mike asks, glancing at the setlist on the floor. “I like it.”

“Yep!” Liam shouts from behind the drums. “Works for me.”

“That’s the same setlist we used on the last European tour.” Sam chuckles, setting his bass aside. “Of course it works. The question was only whether we could still pull it off after five years.”

“We did,” Liam says with a wide grin. “We’re just that good! I mean… after five years! Let someone else try that.”

I smirk because Liam always had a big mouth. It’s gotten him in trouble plenty of times, but he never skimps on praise when it comes to the band. Still, he’s extremely critical and can turn into an arrogant asshole fast if something doesn’t meet his standards.

“Aran? What do you think?” Mike asks, placing his Gibson in the stand next to the amp.

A flickering pain spreads across my forehead. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. “Yeah,” I mutter, stepping away from the mic and rubbing my forehead again. “The show isn’t tomorrow. We still have some time.”

“You okay?” Sam asks.

“Yeah.”