Elliot Reeves had mastered the art of disappearing.
The world outside hummed with life, but in the dim fluorescent glow of the community center, he existed only in the spaces people didn't look. The mop in his hands moved in slow, practiced strokes across the tiled floor, the rhythmic swish and scrape filling the empty hall. It was late—past midnight—but he didn't mind. The night was quieter. Fewer reminders of the world he had abandoned.
He finished his shift in the usual silence, locked up, and walked home through the misty streets of Seaview, a town so small that the ocean itself seemed to whisper its secrets through the alleys. His apartment was a single-room space above a thrift shop, just big enough for a bed, a worn-out armchair, and a record player he hadn't touched in years.
Elliot went straight for the fridge, pulling out a half-empty bottle of beer. The first sip was bitter, the taste of habit rather than pleasure. He sat by the window, staring out at the dark horizon. Somewhere, across the sea, life was moving forward. People were falling in love, chasing dreams, playing songs.
Not him.
He had once believed in the future. He had once believed in music.
A long time ago.
A creaking noise snapped him back to the present. It was faint, but distinct—the sound of movement in the abandoned music hall down the street.
Elliot's body tensed. The old building had been empty for years, left to decay after funding was cut. Most people stayed away. But this wasn't the first time he'd heard something from inside. A few nights ago, he had noticed the faint flicker of candlelight through the broken window.
This time, he decided to check.
Tossing on his jacket, he stepped into the cold night and crossed the street. The hall loomed before him, its doors locked with rusted chains. But someone had pried open one of the side windows. Elliot hesitated, then climbed through.
Inside, dust and forgotten echoes filled the air. Moonlight filtered through the cracked ceiling, casting silver-blue streaks across the wooden stage. And there, in the center of it, sat a girl.
She was young—sixteen, maybe seventeen—with messy dark hair and a defiant slouch. A small candle flickered beside her, illuminating a crumpled notebook in her lap. A pencil tapped rhythmically against its pages.
"Are you lost?" Elliot's voice came out rough, unused to conversation.
The girl didn't flinch. She simply lifted her gaze, eyes sharp, studying him like a puzzle she wasn't sure was worth solving.
"No," she said. "Are you?"
Elliot frowned. "You shouldn't be here."
She smirked, leaning back on her elbows. "Neither should you."
A pause. Silence stretched between them.
Then, with deliberate ease, the girl lifted a harmonica to her lips. A low, haunting melody spilled into the empty room, winding through the air like smoke. It was raw, unpolished—yet something about it made Elliot's chest tighten.
She played for a few more seconds before lowering the instrument. "That was a test," she said. "You passed."
Elliot crossed his arms. "A test for what?"
"To see if you'd walk away." She tilted her head. "But you didn't."
He exhaled, glancing at the broken piano in the corner. Its keys were chipped, its strings long out of tune. But he knew, without touching it, that it still held music.
Just like him.
Maybe that was the problem.