They called it a debulking. Took what they could from around the chiasm without disturbing the structures that kept me breathing, speaking, remembering who I was. Left the rest in place like a landmine defused but not removed.
She said it was delicate, but they got what they needed. The pressure’s gone, the swelling’s down, and the tumor hasn’t grown.
For now, I’m safe.
I don’t know what that’s supposed to feel like yet. I’ll need regular MRIs for the rest of my life, every six months. Maybe sooner if something shifts. We’re not out of the woods.
We’re just not running out of time.
And somehow, against every warning, every impossible scan, every too-careful voice telling me not to hope, I get to keep the story.
The music still plays.
“No need to thank me,” Parvati replies, voice kind. “You’re my success story too. I’ll always be able to say I had a hand in savingtheChase Rhodes. The man who created the guitar that lights up like it belongs in a sci-fi movie.”
I breathe out a laugh, ducking my head.
“My mother saw your guitar line at a music therapy convention,” she adds, voice pitching with amusement. “The one that looks like it makes lightning. She took pictures and said, ‘Isn’t that the man you helped save?’ I didn’t even have to look. I just said, ‘Yeah. That’s him.’”
My smile pulls wider, the lump thickening in my throat. “It was just supposed to be a gimmick. Something to catch the eye while we were playing empty bars.”
“Well, it caught more than that,” she muses.
She’s right; it’s everywhere now. Our sound might’ve catapulted us forward, but that design—that glowing Frankenstein of wood and wire—that’s what turned heads first.
They put my name on the line when it went national. Rhodes Series. Custom run. Full production. I still get emails from teenagers learning their first chord on something I dreamed up on a folding table with duct tape, a drill, and a defiant dream.
“I never imagined it would outlive my vision,” I admit, wincing slightly.
“But it didn’t outlive you. That’s what’s important.” She makes a humming sound. “You lit up the world, Chase. Even before it went dark.”
She lets go of my hand.
Then another voice cuts in. Masculine, gruff, familiar. “Just promise me if they make a glow-in-the-dark surgical scalpel, you’ll name it after my daughter.”
A warm hand takes mine, grip strong and solid. “Mr. Singh,” I murmur. “Thank you for being here. Means a lot.”
“You’ve done a lot for us. For our store, our family. We will let bygones be bygones.”
I shake his hand, holding for several beats, not saying anything. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me now: a mistake, a thief, a stain on his memory.
But I don’t press. Don’t ask for more. Because something tells me he sees everything I’m feeling.
Forgiveness. Humanity. Grace.
At the end of the day, we’re all just broken strings, still part of the same song.
We say our goodbyes, and their footsteps are swallowed by the hum of the crowd. The moment lingers, unfinished in the best way.
Not a beat later, two arms wrap around me, and I’m pulled into the scent of something familiar and old as memory. Lavender, dryer sheets, and whatever intangible thing turns a house into a home.
“Oh, honey. You look amazing.” My mother’s voice cracks as she squeezes me tighter than I expect, like she’s been holding this in for six months.
Or maybe since Stella.
I hug her back, pressing my face against her shoulder, letting the moment seep. Her breath is shaky, full of something too big for words.
“You doing okay?” I manage.
