From: StringTheory27
To: DeadStrings
Date: August 26th, 1997, 10:04 AM
Subject: Re: I’m here
Otis,the Cat Whisperer.That’s an image I didn’t know I needed today.I hope he’s charging an hourly rate for those diplomatic services—Allegra is still negotiating terms of cohabitation with the couch, so she could use his expertise.
Your detour sounds more like realignment.
Isn’t that what we’re all doing?Redrawing the map mid-journey.You signing up for cooking classes feels quietly heroic.There’s something brave about it—learning how to feed yourself in a world that never really taught you how.
And giving music lessons?That’s movement.That’s rhythm.That’s showing up for yourself, even if it’s not the stage you imagined.
I’m a piano teacher myself.That’s the one thing I never give up, no matter what’s happening in my life.It’s fulfilling, isn’t it?
Me?I’m okay.I mean, I’m not fine, but I’m not spiraling.I’m in that strange space between emotional clarity and wanting to shove everything into a metaphorical drawer and slam it shut.
I keep replayingthat magazine headline over and over in my head: “A Legend Leaves Behind a Daughter.”
As if that’s all I am—an afterthought tethered to his legacy.As if my entire inheritance is his name, and the wreckage he left is smoldering in every corner of it.
Now, the rot is finally surfacing.
The whispers are getting louder.My father didn’t just abuse his power—he curated opportunities to prey on trust.He groomed young musicians under the guise of mentorship, promised them time in the spotlight in exchange for silence.Some were underage.Some were scared.Most were dismissed.
There are NDAs, hush money trails, stories too disturbing to summarize with clean language.I’m dealing with all of it so I can help them get whatever they need from those who wronged them—except my father, who died before he could pay for everything.
The grief is strange.
It doesn’t come in stillness; it arrives loud—shouting headlines, late-night calls from reporters, unfinished apologies from people trying to rewrite their proximity to him.
And memories I once treasured?I’m only now realizing they were lies.Staged lies to make him appear like the father of the year in front of cameras and colleagues.The widower who rose above after the loss of his beloved wife.
I hope he rots in hell.
Thankfully, today’s not a collapse day.
Today, I’m folding laundry.Making tea.Letting Beth Orton hum through the static while I try to breathe inside something that almost feels ordinary.
Thanks for checking in.Really.I mean it.
Write me what you learn in class.I promise not to laugh if your eggs come out in weird shapes.
Actually ...I might laugh.But lovingly.
ChapterNinety-Six
Private Message | EchoZone Internal Chat
From: DeadStrings
To: StringTheory27
Date: August 26th, 1997, 8:20 PM
Subject: Cooking lessons
