Page 11 of Hunger & Harmony

I stiffen. Niko . . .The man who haunted my dreams last night. I’m still unsure how real that exchange in the meeting room was. Lorelai didn’t seem to notice my stunned silence when we wrapped up, and I’ve been actively pushing those thoughts back. I fear his touch returning to my body.

I fear how much I wouldn’t mind that.

“Come on, as if it’s some human’s fault,” Ezren continues.

“She’s certainly not helping,” Ryel says, muttering something else under his breath that I don’t catch.

Maybe it’s because his voice is too quiet, and he didn’t want me to hear. Or maybe it’s because the humming around him just got louder.

Wrong notes.

They’re not just something I produce on instruments or hit with my voice. As far back as I can recall music, I also remember these strange sounds. It’s not literal music. No one else seems able to hear them either. I got punished for “making things up” as a kid, so I do my best to ignore it when it happens.

Even if I can’t describe it to others, I could hear it through a storm. The static surrounding Ryel is more than just his fury. It manifests in a broken frequency that only I seem to pick up.

That . . . isn’t something I’ll acknowledge, though. I can hear my mom’s voice blending with my thoughts. I’m just anxious. A new place with new challenges means more stress, right? I shouldn’t overreact. It’s perfectly normal.

“I’ll do my best,” I tell Ryel, gesturing to my laptop. “Look, the itineraries and inventory tracking are almost done for all six cities.”

“Yeah, man,” Ezren says, pointedly looking at him. “Just chill.”

A scoff sounds before Ryel promptly storms out of the lounge. Ezren winks at me and follows after his bandmate. The wrong notes fade, too, leaving me in silence.

Oxygen returns to my lungs. Here I thought my freedom was the ticket to 24/7 music. Right now, though, the quiet is welcomed. That thought hasn’t crossed my mind in so long—maybe since the wrong notes were loudest.

I was only thirteen when an old box in the attic drew my attention. I’d gone through it, my excitement growing with each new vinyl and cassette tape discovered. If my parents really hated music, then what were all these carefully packaged keepsakes doing in their storage?

That fight could’ve put active volcanoes to shame. They’d never blown up on me like that, and I matched their intensity. The more I insisted, the more they doubled down. So, naturally, I ran away. Not forever. I just wanted to be alone to process their absurd rules.

Hours later, I came to. The hospital room was spinning violently, and even after I could sit up and speak, all memory of what had happened was gone. Strange bruises and bloodied clothes were my only proof that anything ever did. There were no leads.

Music was not only forbidden, but became a weapon from that point on. My parents didn’t hesitate to remind me of what could happen, what did happen as a result of my fascination.

At the time, silence was better than the storm of wrong notes. Once life continued, though, a special kind of resentment for the quiet overcame me. It's easy to forget the comfort of peace when you’re caged by it.

Still. Maybe I should ease into this new life, instead of throwing away my old one entirely.

I keep that thought with me as my lunch break finally arrives. One of the human coordinators, Jamie, offered for me to join her on the rooftop for lunch. She’s been scrolling on her phone, while I’ve been soaking up the afternoon sunlight. Autumn is in full swing, but Sunveil has much warmer days than my hometown. It’s fun to wear a bright tee and cropped jeans on October’s doorstep.

“Aw man,” she grumbles, and I tear my gaze away from the city view.

“What happened?”

“I accidentally grabbed my roommate’s lunch,” she says, holding up a pack of rainbow sour candy. “She’s the only monster who likes these torture devices.”

My face lights up, and I hold my hand out to her.

“Ooh! I’ll eat them if you won’t,” I say, shameless in batting my lashes at her.

“You’re not Team Sweet?” she asks, incredulous as she hands them over.

The cool breeze blows my hair across my face, and I quickly shake the strands away as I tear open the packet.

“Absolutely not. The more my face puckers, the better.”

“Diabolical,” she says with a laugh.

She winces as I pop three of the sour-coated gummies into my mouth. It’s not even that extreme. Pretty good for an after-lunch treat.