1
Ghosts of Silence
Lily-Anne
I’m frozen in the Sydney Airport carpark, about to cross oceans for a man I’ve never met.
I must be mad. The last man I trusted nearly erased me.
My voice. My confidence. My music.
All gone.
Now there is only silence, and it’s winning. If I were half the musician I trained to be, I’d have broken it by now. But I can’t. The only thing breaking is me, and the Englishman waiting for me across the sea has no idea how much I’m counting on him to glue the pieces back together.
Unless he takes one look at the mess I am and realises he’s made a terrible mistake.
A cold gust slaps me as I stare into the boot of our old sedan, my pulse spiking.
The black case stares back, cold metal latches gleaming in the predawn light, the lid shut and sealed tight like a secret.
My guitar case.
Mum joins me by the boot, pulling my suitcase behind her. She follows my gaze and sighs. “It’s not a dead body, Lily.”
No. But it holds the ghost of one. I carefully unlatch the hard case and lift the lid, my stomach knotting at the sight of my pride and joy—a Cole Clark semi-acoustic made of Australian blackwood.
Tears prick my eyes. I can hardly bear to touch it, though every part of me still aches to play.
“You’ll see, love,” Mum says gently. “This trip is just what you need. Sea breeze, new people…inspiration?”
She doesn’t say how much she hates flying. How much she’d rather Istayed.
“Thanks, Mum.” I reach down tentatively to brush the strings. They hum in response, a soft, beautiful sound that cuts deeper than it should. Dad gave me this guitar on my sixteenth birthday. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t played it—until six weeks ago.
I shut the lid, my throat growing tight.
I shouldn’t feel like this. I have a degree in music.
Years of lessons, concerts, and busking with friends at Circular Quay. Writing songs in my bedroom—songs that Dad had believed in.
But then I lost him, and I lost my way. I couldn’t write, and though I kept playing, the joy only surfaced when I thought of Dad. Everything else rang hollow.
And that feeling never left. I forced my way through a Bachelor of Music Studies, promising myself I’d have a fresh start after graduation. I’d write songs again. Find joy in music. Finally feel like myself.
Instead, I let myself be pressured into an ensemble at the start of this year. It should have been perfect, performing on stage with other musicians for a living, but I was struggling not to fall apart. Music became work, and the Cole Clark only came out of its case when there was a concert.
I’d done all the right things, but on the inside, I was as miserable as ever.
Six weeks ago, I quit that job and ended things with my ex—and brought my world crashing down.
And now?
Nothing.
No gigs. No fire. No sound.
I’d settle for simply being able to play a chord. Funny, how hauling my guitar across the globe might make that possible.
