Chapter 1: The Spark
The city hummed outside Kael's window, a dull symphony of car horns, distant chatter, and the occasional screech of a tram. He barely noticed. Sprawled across his unmade bed, earphones plugged in, he scrolled aimlessly through a music app, his thumb moving with the practiced apathy of someone who had long since mastered the art of doing nothing. At nineteen, Kael was a paradox—a mind sharp enough to solve equations that stumped professors, yet too lazy to bother with anything that didn't spark his interest. And nothing had, not for years.
His room was a testament to his inertia: books half-read, sketches abandoned mid-stroke, a guitar gathering dust in the corner. His parents had long given up on pushing him toward "potential." They'd seen him ace exams without studying, fix a neighbor's broken computer in ten minutes, even compose a piano piece at twelve that made his music teacher cry. But Kael? He shrugged it off. "What's the point?" he'd say, and retreat to his bubble of playlists and daydreams.
Today was no different. The afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, painting stripes across his face as he skipped through tracks. Pop, jazz, lo-fi, trap—nothing stuck. He sighed, about to close the app, when a thumbnail caught his eye. No flashy cover art, just a grainy photo of a microphone against a dark background. The artist's name was simply "Veyl." The track: "Echoes of Somewhere."
Curious despite himself, Kael tapped play.
The first note hit like a ripple in still water. A soft, haunting guitar chord, layered with a faint hum that felt alive, like a heartbeat. Then came the voice—raw, unpolished, neither male nor female, but something that seemed to speak directly to the hollow space in Kael's chest. The lyrics were cryptic, fragmented:
"Chasing shadows, falling through / Where the sky forgets the blue…"
He froze, his thumb hovering over the screen. The melody shifted, weaving between minor chords and a subtle beat that pulsed like a city at night. It wasn't just music—it was a world, vast and unfinished, pulling him in. His heart raced, not from excitement but from recognition, as if he'd stumbled across a piece of himself he didn't know was missing.
The song ended too soon, four minutes that felt like a lifetime. Kael sat up, yanking out his earphones. The silence of his room felt wrong now, too small for what he'd just heard. He checked the artist's profile. No bio, no photo, just a single uploaded track and a cryptic tagline: "For those who listen with their souls." The comments were sparse but fervent—fans begging for more, theorizing about Veyl's identity. Kael didn't care about that. He played the song again. And again.
By the third listen, something shifted. He stood, pacing the room, his mind alight in a way it hadn't been in years. The chords, the rhythm, the raw emotion—he could see it, like a puzzle he needed to solve. He wanted to pull it apart, understand how it worked, then build something of his own. Not just listen. Create.
He stopped by the guitar in the corner, its strings dull with neglect. His fingers twitched. He'd learned to play years ago, mostly to shut up his music teacher, but he'd never cared enough to keep at it. Now, though, he could hear fragments of Echoes of Somewhere in his head, and his hands itched to chase them.
Kael grabbed the guitar, wincing at the out-of-tune twang. He spent an hour tuning it, fumbling through chords, trying to mimic what he'd heard. It was messy, frustrating—his fingers were clumsy, his rhythm off. But for the first time in forever, he didn't quit. The spark had caught, small but stubborn, and it wasn't going out.
As night fell, Kael sat cross-legged on his bed, scribbling in a notebook he'd dug out from under a pile of clothes. Lyrics, chord progressions, half-formed ideas for a beat. He wasn't sure what he was doing—singing, rapping, producing, playing—it didn't matter. All he knew was that Veyl's music had cracked open a door, and he was stepping through.
Somewhere deep down, Kael felt the weight of a choice. He could let this fade, like every other fleeting interest, or he could chase it. For once, he wanted to chase.
To be continued…
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