Chapter 8

Soundtrack for this chapter:

Avril Lavigne – "Complicated"

The air in the "The Vinyl Verse" still hummed from the jingle of the bell above the door, which had announced Ethan's departure. Sky remained standing behind the counter, her hand mechanically wiping the polished surface, but her gaze was fixed on the empty space where the guy had just stood. She felt strange. The awkwardness, which usually dissolved quickly, now clung to her like a sticky web. Her internal monologue was filled with a bewilderment that was as chaotic and obsessive as a set of disjointed punk riffs.

Why had this guy affected her so much? She was used to defiance, to challenges, to fights. But he was different. He looked like a ghost, a pale shadow, but there was something about him that hooked her, like a sharp, invisible barb. She remembered his gaze on the bridge—his bottomless devastation, the same she so often saw in her own reflection. Why was he going to jump? The question drilled into her brain. She knew what it was like to want to disappear, but she had never reached that edge. Or had she?

In her memory, the tiny spark she thought she'd caught in the depths of his eyes when he stepped back from the edge resurfaced. It was hope, fragile and almost imperceptible, but it was there. And that was frightening. On her own wrist, the tattoo—a stylized broken piano engulfed in flames—seemed to throb painfully, as if responding to something kindred in him. She had gotten that tattoo to spite her mother, to symbolize her pain, but now she felt it was also a symbol of something she shared with this Ethan, the guy with the extinguished gaze who listened to classical music.

The thought of his thin, as if broken, yet surprisingly musical fingers wouldn't leave her head. It caused a discomfort, an unpleasant feeling like an itch under her skin. Vulnerability and compassion—these were things she meticulously hid behind her "barbed wire" of cynicism and fierce independence, which served as her shield.

She was used to fighting, to protesting, to being perceived by everyone as "not like the others." It was her armor against an abusive father who beat her for being "different," and a conservative mother who dreamed of a "normal" daughter. But this guy… he demanded nothing from her, except, perhaps, just to be. And that was terrifying. He didn't try to control her, didn't try to fit her into a box, but his passivity and the pain she saw in him stirred something new within her.

"He was as broken as I am," the thought pierced her consciousness. She remembered how her father had beaten her for being "different." That trauma had become the source of her internal pain and distrust, the feeling of being "unwanted" or "wrong." And now she was seeing someone who also seemed "wrong," but not by choice—by pain.

Sky felt her defense mechanisms, her carefully constructed walls, begin to fail. This encounter, first on the bridge, now here, in her own sanctuary, was too personal. She didn't want to be a "savior," wasn't a hero who pulled others out of their shit. She was a rebel, one who destroyed, not built. But something about this guy, in his brokenness, provoked this strange, inexplicable desire in her. She felt an internal dissonance, sharp and unpleasant, like a false note.

Her cynicism and independence were her defense, her "barbed wire" that she had so carefully erected over the years so that no one could reach her own wounds. And now this empathy, this inexplicable compassion for Ethan, was breaking through her armor like a thin crack. It caused an almost physical discomfort.

She didn't want to be weak, didn't want to feel pain again. But Ethan, with his bottomless anguish and that glimmer of hope in his eyes, appealed to a part of her she had hidden so deeply. She tried to brush these thoughts aside, but they returned, obsessive and relentless. Sky was beginning to fight her own defense mechanisms, and this internal battle was as exhausting as the loudest rehearsal.

Sky stood behind the counter of the record store, but her thoughts were far away. The bewilderment and a strange, almost sticky curiosity about the guy from the bridge clung to her, refusing to let go. Suddenly, from behind a stack of old jazz records, Mr. Hendrix, the owner of the store, appeared. He was elderly, with disheveled gray hair and a worn-out flannel shirt, but his eyes were surprisingly perceptive. He had known Sky for a long time and seemed to see right through her.

— What is it, Sky? Lost in thought? — his voice was soft, like the velvet of an old vinyl record, but it held something more than just a routine question. He had noticed her unusual distraction.

Sky shrugged.

— It's nothing special. Just… a rough morning. Liam was completely off the rails at rehearsal today, — she tried to joke, but her voice held its usual carelessness.

Mr. Hendrix just chuckled softly, raising one eyebrow. He didn't press, just pulled out a notepad and a pencil.

— Well, if the morning was rough, maybe you can fix the evening? Here's a list of what needs to be ordered. Strings, new needles for the turntables, a few rare vinyls. And check the box of invoices, the payment from that oddball who bought the old synthesizer last week should be in there. He always pays in cash, so don't forget to put it in the safe.

Sky took the notepad without looking at it.

— Seriously? It's Friday night, and you're loading me up with bookkeeping? — she rolled her eyes, but she already felt a little better. Routine was a familiar salvation.

— Sometimes, Sky, the most important little things are hidden in routine, — Mr. Hendrix turned to an old turntable in the corner and placed a record on it. A slow, melancholic melody poured from the speakers, full of dissonances that nevertheless blended into a strange, compelling harmony. — You know, the most complex compositions require every note to be in its place. Even the ones that seem like dissonances have their purpose.

— I get it, Mr. Hendrix. 'The harmony of dissonance,' just how you like it, — Sky sighed. She was used to his musical metaphors, which somehow always turned out to be relevant to her life. She was about to head to the back room when he spoke again.

— By the way, — Mr. Hendrix's voice dropped a little lower. — That guy who came in today. The one you were talking to so 'awkwardly.' — He paused, and Sky felt her heart clench slightly. He had noticed something. — His hands… you know, they're like the hands of people who live for music. A pianist's fingers. Except for some reason, they looked… lost. As if they hadn't found their melody in a long time.

Sky froze. He had seen it. He saw her, and he saw Ethan.

— It's nothing, Mr. Hendrix, just some weirdo. Found a great time for a stroll on a bridge at night, right, — she tried to laugh, but the sound came out strained.

Mr. Hendrix just nodded slowly.

— Sometimes the most beautiful melodies are born from the deepest dissonances, — he repeated, his gaze fixed on the vinyl. — And sometimes, such melodies find each other, even if they seem completely different. You just have to know how to listen, Sky. And give them a chance to sound together. — He glanced at the tattoo on her wrist. — Sometimes old instruments, the ones that seem to have played their last, can sound new again, if you give them a chance.

He looked at her again, and his eyes held a promise: I see you. And I'm here when you're ready to talk.

Sky felt a subtle, unfamiliar tingling under her ribs. It wasn't irritation, but something entirely different. Something that resembled a fragile spark of anticipation. Mr. Hendrix's words, so simple and profound, continued to echo in her mind like a distant riff. They relentlessly brought her thoughts back to the guy from the bridge, to his lost fingers. And to the realization that, perhaps, a new, inexplicable melody had appeared in her rebellious life, one that demanded to be heard.

After their conversation, Sky tried to focus on her work. She went back to sorting through new arrivals, but the vinyl records blurred before her eyes. She picked up a stack of invoices, trying to find the right receipt. The thoughts, like nagging ghosts, kept returning to Ethan.

She remembered his empty gaze on the bridge, which was so much like her own when she felt completely lost. She knew that feeling, that abyss. But then another image surfaced in her mind: his surprise, his slight irritation when she challenged him. It was like an awakening, a sharp jolt that had pulled him from his stupor.

Sky finished sorting the invoices, setting the notepad aside. Thoughts of Ethan continued to swirl in her mind. To drown out the intrusive noise, she reached for one of the guitars on the wall. It was her habit—to hide behind music when words became too heavy.

Her fingers fell into their familiar place on the neck. She was about to play something from her repertoire, something aggressive, filled with a rage that could burn this uncomfortable compassion out of her. But when she struck the strings, something entirely different poured from her fingertips.

It wasn't her usual punk rock. The melody was melancholic, but it had subtle glimmers of something elusive, as if a timid ray of light were breaking through a dense fog. The sounds were deep, drawn-out, like an old blues ballad, yet they held the same desperate anguish and strange beauty she had caught in the voice of that guy from the bridge.

It wasn't a conscious action; it was a pure reflection of her internal experience, her confusion, her burgeoning, inexplicable pull toward something new. Her fingers moved on their own, creating chords that had never appeared in her repertoire before. The melody was unfamiliar, yet strangely familiar, as if it had always lived somewhere deep inside her.

She played, lost in the sound, and only after a few minutes, when the final notes had dissolved into the silence, did Sky realize what she was playing. She stopped abruptly. Her hands froze over the strings, and an expression of deep embarrassment mixed with a slight fear appeared on her face. She quickly pulled her fingers from the neck, as if she had touched something forbidden, and almost nervously set the guitar aside. This was too personal, too vulnerable. This new melody, born from her own dissonance, was a frightening but powerful omen of something to come. She didn't understand where it had come from, but it was there, giving her no peace.