Page 27

Tristan stood in front of the microphone stand, staring at the fine mesh above the ball and wondering how he would sing all the songs without confronting his demons. Indeed, he had successfully banished them from his mind. All the lyrics and melodies. All the memories.

Four beats on the bass drum brought him back to the rehearsal room. José started drumming, filling the space with a hard rhythm. Meanwhile, Andrej untangled a few cables at the mixing desk. Leaf sat with his head bowed on the couch, changing the strings on his Gibson.

In the guitar stand next to the amplifier rested Tristan’s white Schecter Tempest. He didn’t play the guitar for every song, and as far as he could recall, it had been less than two months since he last restrung it. It had also been that long since he had played it.

My fingers are going to bleed.

Andrej yanked the microphone out of the holder and inserted a cable before placing it back into the stand. “By the way, I found an old phone that you can have,” he said, walking to his bag on the couch next to Leaf.

Tristan’s gaze lingered on Leaf, who was carefully tightening the last string. He then plugged the cable into the tuner, set it on his knee, and tuned the guitar. A smoldering cigarette lay in the ashtray on the table in front of him, from which he absentmindedly took a drag before returning his attention to his instrument.

The sight was soothing. Knowing that Leaf was there made everything better. Always. But the fact that he had obviously suffered a setback and Tristan was partly to blame felt like a knife in the back.

“Here,” Andrej said, holding up a phone and placing it on the table amid the paper cup, beer cans, and overflowing ashtray.

“Thanks.”

“I think there’s still some credit left on it,” Andrej said. “I also saved all the important numbers for you.”

Tristan just nodded, and his gaze wandered off into the air. All the important numbers. Hm … Suddenly, grief welled up inside him, choking him.

Except Milo’s …

“Let’s get started!” Andrej said eagerly and put on the bass.

Tristan gripped the microphone stand with both hands, his heart racing faster than ever. His mouth was dry, and his breaths came in shallow gasps, too shallow for him to sing.

Should he have warmed up? He tried to take deep breaths, to fill his stomach and chest with air, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

Meanwhile, Leaf plugged in the guitar, and José struck the sticks together.

Tristan’s throat was too dry, and he desperately needed a sip of water, so he headed straight for the fridge.

Shit, yesterday definitely involved too much whiskey.

After grabbing a water bottle and gulping it down, he returned to his place behind the microphone.

“Okay, ready,” he said. It felt like getting into the ring. Although his throat was moist again, the thought of singing now made him feel sick. Something heavy lay in his stomach, and he was sure it wasn’t yesterday’s alcohol. Tristan swallowed down the nausea and cleared his throat.

José counted again, and they started with full force. José and Andrej set the rhythm, and Leaf played his arpeggios. When the intro reached its peak and the music rolled back like a wave, Tristan pulled himself up on the microphone again. One last time, he considered whether he should stop, but then he took a breath, put all his strength into his voice, and began to sing.

He strung words together. His words were not only in his heart but also burned into his brain. He retrieved them from the hard drive as if they were meaningless.

But that was good. It was a start. He could return step by step. Carefully.

He slowly got used to the fact that he was doing what people expected of him to do. Warm up to the fact that it was also what he wanted. He still had five days and didn’t need to go from zero to a hundred right away.

“Be patient with yourself,” Dr. Snider had said.

Right now, he had no other choice if he didn’t want to break under his own words. He wasn’t alone in this; drums, bass, and guitar held everything together, creating melodies that led to new ones. The pitch changed and rose a third higher.

His hard, rough voice softened into something different—a new self emerged. Sometimes he felt like a stranger to himself, and the fear of exploring this side was often overwhelming. This self brought him both joy and pain, demanding that he remain the person singing right now, only to disappear into the mist as soon as the song ended.

Shutting his eyes, he tried to capture the aftereffects of the song. He loved it, despite how much it tormented his soul. As the instruments faded out, he reached for his water bottle and washed away the pain with a big gulp.

“Yeah! That was good!” José exclaimed. “We definitely still got it.”

Andrej high-fived him. Leaf drank his beer and lit a cigarette. Relieved, Tristan took the microphone out of the stand and waited for the next song. José drummed, Andrej laid down a fat bass line, and Leaf played long distorted tones. Cautiously, Tristan let the music in. Alert. Refusing to get lost in it.