A QEA ADENTURE SERIES:
Reflections on the Road
Reflections on the Road: Echoes of the Beginning
The van rattled down the highway, its rusted frame groaning against the wind. Inside, the air buzzed with a strange mix of excitement and exhaustion. Blade tapped his drumsticks against the dashboard, creating a rhythm that annoyed Maverick but kept Moonchild smiling. Hank sat in the back, half-asleep, his notebook balanced precariously on his lap. The pages were filled with half-formed lyrics, doodles, and cryptic phrases that no one else understood.
"Are we lost?" Maverick asked, his tone sharper than he intended. He hated the endless miles of asphalt, the uncertainty of where they were heading.
Rico, their manager, shot him a glare from the driver’s seat. "We’re not lost. GPS says another twenty miles."
Tempest leaned out from the middle row. "GPS also said that last time, and we ended up at that creepy gas station."
"That wasn’t GPS," Rico muttered. "That was Hank."
The band burst into laughter, even Hank, though his chuckle was slow, as if delayed by whatever dream had been tugging at him moments before.
They passed an old diner with neon lights flickering weakly against the night. The sign read Silver Spoon Café, though the "S" had long since burned out. No one spoke as it faded into the rearview mirror.
The first show of the tour had been a disaster. A faulty mic cut out during their opening song. Blade had broken a drumstick midway through, and Tempest’s amp had fried just before the encore. But the crowd? They had screamed for more, drowning out the chaos with raw energy. Hank had stepped off the stage drenched in sweat, his voice hoarse but triumphant. "We’ve got something," he’d said to no one in particular. "We’ve really got something."
Moonchild had nodded, their eyes reflecting the stage lights. "Let’s just hope it doesn’t burn us out."
The van pulled into a motel parking lot just past midnight. The place looked abandoned, its sign swinging in the wind, casting fractured shadows on the cracked pavement.
"Classic," Tempest muttered, grabbing his bag.
Inside, the wallpaper was peeling, and the air smelled of mildew. But the rooms were cheap, and no one felt like complaining. Moonchild claimed the couch in the corner while Maverick collapsed onto the bed, boots and all. Hank lingered near the window, staring out at the empty road.
"Mirror’s weird," Blade said, breaking the silence.
"What?" Hank turned.
"The mirror." Blade pointed to the bathroom door, which hung slightly ajar. The mirror reflected the room, but something about it felt off. The angles didn’t match, as if the room it showed wasn’t quite theirs.
"Just tired," Hank said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
In the morning, no one mentioned the mirror. It seemed easier to forget. But the memory clung to them, like the lingering scent of cigarettes in the van.
As they packed up, Moonchild pulled Hank aside. "Did you see it too?"
Hank hesitated. "See what?"
Moonchild shook their head. "Never mind."
The van roared back to life, and the highway stretched out before them. Rico mumbled something about making up time, and Blade started another beat on the dashboard.
Weeks passed, the tour rolling on in a blur of cheap motels, dimly lit venues, and late-night arguments over who ate the last gas station sandwich. They played for crowds that didn’t always understand them, but the ones who did made it worth the struggle.
Tempest had started keeping a journal, sketching out fragments of lyrics and riffs. Moonchild took photographs of everything—backstage chaos, empty highways, a particularly strange diner with a jukebox that only played songs from the year 1974. Maverick found himself slipping into quiet moments, tuning his bass while the others bickered over setlists.
And Hank wrote. Obsessively. His notebook filled with words he didn’t always remember writing. Words like shadowglass and echoes and keepers.
Reflections on the Road: Pineapple Duel in Pine Bluff
The diner sat just off the highway, its neon sign flickering erratically in the night. The words Pine Bluff Eats! glowed half-heartedly against the pitch-black sky. Inside, the air smelled of burnt coffee, greasy fries, and something faintly tropical.
Blade was the first to notice the pineapple mascot, perched next to an old jukebox in the corner. It was a foam suit with cartoonishly wide eyes, oversized gloves, and a perpetual grin that seemed far too enthusiastic for midnight. The pineapple waved a padded hand at the band as they filed into a booth.
"Why is it waving?" Tempest muttered, sliding into the seat.
"Why is it here?" Maverick added, eyeing the menu like it might bite him.
"Who cares?" Blade said. "It’s hilarious."
Hank leaned his head on the table, half-asleep. Moonchild studied the pineapple, their expression unreadable. The mascot didn’t move, just stood by the jukebox as if waiting for something.
The waitress, a tired woman in her sixties, brought coffee and burgers to the table. "What’s with the pineapple?" Blade asked as she set down his plate.
She glanced over her shoulder, her face tightening. "Oh, that’s Jerry. He runs the jukebox."
"The pineapple runs the jukebox?" Tempest said, suppressing a laugh.
She shrugged. "He’s been doing it for years. Don’t mess with him."
Blade’s grin widened. "Now I have to mess with him."
It started innocently enough. Blade sauntered up to the jukebox, his drumsticks spinning lazily between his fingers. "Hey, Pineapple," he said, tapping the side of the jukebox. "You take requests?"
The mascot tilted its foam head, then pointed to the slot where coins went in. Blade dug into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled dollar, and fed it into the machine. The pineapple pressed a button with its oversized hand, and the opening riff of a classic rock song filled the diner.
"Not bad," Blade said. He tapped out the rhythm on the side of the jukebox, his sticks clacking in perfect time. "Think you can keep up?"
The pineapple’s head tilted again. Then it moved to the counter, grabbed a pair of spoons, and began to drum on the metal edge with surprising precision.
The rest of the band watched in disbelief. "Is he seriously challenging a fruit to a drum battle?" Maverick asked.
"He’s Blade," Moonchild said with a shrug. "Of course he is."
Hank, still half-asleep, mumbled, "I give it five minutes before he regrets this."
Blade leaned in closer to the pineapple. "Not bad for a piece of produce," he said. Then he launched into a complex rhythm, his sticks flying over the jukebox and the counter. The patrons clapped along, their cheers growing louder as Blade grinned smugly at his opponent.
The pineapple didn’t flinch. It spun the spoons between its gloved hands and matched Blade’s rhythm beat for beat. Then it added flourishes—faster, louder, sharper. The crowd gasped.
Blade’s grin faltered. He stepped back, cracking his knuckles. "Okay, Jerry. Let’s see what you’ve really got."
What happened next was surreal. The pineapple jumped onto a table, pulling out a tambourine seemingly from nowhere. It started to play, shaking the tambourine with one hand while still drumming with the spoons in the other.
"This isn’t happening," Tempest said, eyes wide.
"It’s happening," Moonchild replied, pulling out their phone to record.
The diner erupted in cheers as Blade and the pineapple traded rhythms back and forth, each more intricate than the last. Hank finally lifted his head, his bleary eyes narrowing as he watched the spectacle.
"That pineapple is better than Blade," he said flatly.
Blade was sweating now. His sticks flew across every surface he could reach—the counter, the salt shakers, even an empty plate. But no matter how hard he pushed, the pineapple kept up, its oversized grin never faltering.
Finally, Blade threw down his sticks and raised his hands in mock surrender. "You win, Jerry," he said, panting. "You’re the king of the drum."
The pineapple bowed dramatically, then returned to the jukebox, pressing a button to play a triumphant finale.
The band burst into laughter as Blade trudged back to the table. "So," Tempest said, trying to keep a straight face, "how does it feel to be outplayed by a fruit?"
Blade glared at her, then grabbed a fry off his plate. "Shut up."
Moonchild showed him the video they’d taken. "This is going viral," they said.
"Don’t you dare," Blade replied, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
As they left the diner, the pineapple waved again. Hank paused by the door, glancing back at it. "Hey, Jerry," he called. "What’s your deal?"
The pineapple didn’t answer. But as they stepped outside, Hank thought he saw something in the jukebox’s reflection—a shimmer, almost like a shadow. It moved, just for a second, then was gone.
"Everything okay?" Moonchild asked, noticing him linger.
Hank shrugged. "Yeah. Just... weird reflections."
They climbed into the van, the laughter from the diner still echoing behind them. But as the highway swallowed them up again, Hank couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d been part of something stranger than they realized.
Reflections on the Road: Maverick vs. the Vending Machine Prophet
The gas station sat in the middle of nowhere, its fluorescent lights humming against the dark. The band was tired, cranky, and low on snacks. Rico was inside arguing with the cashier about something to do with their credit card, while the others lingered outside, stretching their legs.
Maverick wandered over to the vending machine. It was ancient, its faded logo barely legible, and the glass panel was scratched up enough to make the sodas inside look blurry. A handwritten sign taped to the front read: “Out of Order, Except for Those Who Seek.”
He smirked. “That’s not ominous or anything.”
Reaching into his pocket, he found a crumpled dollar and fed it into the slot. The machine groaned like it might die, then spat out a soda can with a dull thunk. As Maverick bent down to grab it, a small slip of paper fluttered out of the slot alongside it.
The paper was yellowed, its edges frayed. Printed on it in blocky, typewriter-style font was a single line: “Beware the red lights, for they mark the unseen road.”
Maverick stared at the slip for a moment before shaking his head. “Sure. That’s totally normal.”
He shoved the fortune in his pocket, cracked open the soda, and walked back to the van.
The first red light came that night. They were on a winding road, the GPS flickering in and out of service, when Rico hit the brakes.
“What now?” Tempest groaned.
Ahead, a railroad crossing light flashed red, though there was no sign of a train. The gate arms stayed up, and the tracks were silent.
“Is this thing broken?” Blade asked, leaning forward from the back seat.
Rico grumbled, “Looks like it. We’ll wait a minute.”
But Maverick, seated quietly in the passenger seat, pulled the fortune from his pocket and stared at it. His lips twitched, almost forming a grin. “Weird coincidence,” he muttered to himself.
The others didn’t hear him over the groan of the van’s engine. The red lights eventually stopped, and they moved on.
The second fortune appeared two days later. They’d stopped at another gas station, this one just as dilapidated as the last. Maverick, driven by equal parts thirst and curiosity, tried the vending machine again.
This time, the slip read: “The stage will falter; hold the line.”
He showed it to Moonchild as they leaned against the van, sipping a coffee that looked far too bitter to enjoy.
“You think this is some kind of gag?” Maverick asked.
Moonchild tilted their head, considering. “If it is, it’s a good one. Are you going to save them?”
“The fortunes? Probably.” He paused, then added with a smirk, “In case they’re worth something when I’m famous.”
That night, the stage faltered—literally.
Halfway through their set, Blade’s drum riser wobbled. He shouted something, but his voice was drowned out by the music. The next second, the riser tipped forward, sending the drum kit crashing to the floor.
The band froze. Blade scrambled to his feet, unhurt but furious. Hank recovered first, strumming a chord loud enough to draw the crowd’s attention back. Tempest signaled for Moonchild to take over with a keyboard solo while Blade and a crew member hurried to reset the kit.
Maverick stood at his bass, heart pounding. He didn’t know why, but his mind flashed back to the fortune: Hold the line. He stepped forward, filling the silence with a booming bassline that carried the band through the chaos.
By the time the set ended, the crowd was cheering like nothing had happened.
The third fortune was waiting for Maverick the next day. He didn’t even need a soda this time; it was taped to the van’s windshield.
“Shadows grow when the light fades. Beware what follows.”
He held it up for the others to see as they loaded their gear into the van. “Okay, this is officially weird.”
Blade snatched it from his hand, reading it aloud in an exaggerated, spooky voice. “Beware what follows! Ooooh! What follows, Maverick? The soda police?”
“Maybe it’s a fan,” Tempest said. “Some cryptic artist type trying to mess with us.”
“Or it’s a vending machine possessed by demons,” Blade added.
“Either way,” Maverick said, sliding into the passenger seat, “I’m keeping this one too.”
That night, something followed.
They were on the highway again, the van cutting through a thick fog. No one spoke; even Blade had stopped drumming on the dashboard. The silence felt heavy, like the fog had seeped inside with them.
Maverick glanced in the side mirror. He thought he saw headlights, distant but steady, following them through the haze.
“Anyone else see that?” he asked, his voice low.
“See what?” Rico said.
“In the mirror.”
Rico looked but shook his head. “Just fog.”
Maverick didn’t respond. He kept his eyes on the mirror, the headlights never getting closer but never fading either.
When they finally reached their motel, the lights were gone. But Maverick couldn’t shake the feeling they’d been watched.
The next morning, there was no fortune. Maverick checked every pocket, even dug through the vending machine at their latest stop, but found nothing.
As the van rumbled back onto the highway, he leaned his head against the window, the last fortune still fresh in his mind. Shadows grow when the light fades.
He didn’t tell the others, but he couldn’t stop wondering. Was the vending machine some elaborate joke? A fluke? Or had it been trying to warn him all along?
When the van disappeared into the horizon, the fog returned, creeping across the empty road like a living thing. And somewhere far behind, two headlights blinked to life.
Reflections on the Road: Moonlight Confessions
The rest stop was quiet, the kind of place where time seemed to pause. The band had been on the road for hours, the van’s rattling frame wearing on their nerves. When they pulled off, no one protested. Hank stayed in the van, scribbling in his notebook, while Blade wandered toward the vending machines. Tempest leaned against the hood, smoking in silence, and Maverick sat cross-legged on the asphalt, tuning his bass by ear.
Moonchild slipped away unnoticed, drawn by the faint outline of a trail winding into the woods.
The path was uneven, littered with dry leaves and broken branches. Moonlight filtered through the trees, casting fragmented patterns on the ground. The air smelled faintly of pine and damp earth. Moonchild walked slowly, their breath visible in the cool night air.
Fame was supposed to feel like something—something bigger, something more. Instead, it felt like running in circles, always chasing a version of themselves they weren’t sure they could ever become. The tour, the endless nights, the weight of expectation—it all clung to them, suffocating and inescapable.
The sound of a crackling fire pulled them from their thoughts. Around a bend, the trees opened into a small clearing. A man sat by a fire, a tin cup in his hands. His clothes were worn, his boots caked with mud. He looked up as Moonchild approached, his face lined but kind.
“Long way from the road,” he said, his voice gravelly but warm.
Moonchild hesitated. “I could say the same about you.”
The man chuckled, gesturing to the log across from him. “Fair enough. You look like you could use a break.”
Moonchild sat cautiously, their hands tucked into their jacket pockets. The fire was small but steady, its warmth cutting through the chill. The man didn’t speak right away, sipping from his cup and watching the flames.
“Name’s Jack,” he said finally. “What brings you out here?”
“Needed some air,” Moonchild replied. They avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the fire. “It gets loud on the road.”
Jack nodded. “Noise’ll do that. Sometimes the silence does it too.”
Moonchild frowned. “What do you mean?”
Jack tilted his head, studying them. “You can run from the noise, but the silence... that’s where you find yourself. And sometimes, that’s the scariest part.”
They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling between them. Moonchild thought about the band, the van, the music. It all felt like a blur, like they were losing pieces of themselves in the chaos.
“Do you ever feel like... like you’re not enough?” they asked, their voice barely audible.
Jack didn’t answer right away. He poked the fire with a stick, sending a shower of sparks into the air. “All the time,” he said finally. “But I figure, if you’re here, you’re enough for the moment. Doesn’t have to be more than that.”
Moonchild looked at him, their eyes searching his face for some kind of truth. “That sounds easy.”
“It’s not,” Jack admitted. “But it’s simple.”
The conversation drifted, touching on everything and nothing. Jack spoke about the places he’d been, the people he’d met. He talked about the stars, how they always seemed brighter when you were far from everything.
Moonchild found themselves opening up, their words spilling out in fragments. They talked about the band, the pressure to keep moving, to keep creating. They talked about the fear of losing themselves, of becoming something they didn’t recognize.
Jack listened without interrupting, his expression calm but attentive. When Moonchild finally fell silent, he leaned back, his hands resting on his knees.
“Sounds like you’re carrying a lot,” he said.
Moonchild nodded. “I don’t know how to put it down.”
Jack smiled faintly. “Maybe you don’t have to. Maybe you just learn to carry it differently.”
The fire had burned low by the time Moonchild stood to leave. Jack handed them a small, polished stone, its surface smooth and cool to the touch.
“Something to hold onto,” he said. “For when it gets heavy.”
Moonchild took the stone, their fingers curling around it. “Thanks.”
Jack nodded, his gaze steady. “Keep walking. You’ll figure it out.”
The trail back to the rest stop felt shorter, the trees less imposing. When Moonchild emerged from the woods, the van was still there, the others waiting. Blade was asleep in the backseat, Tempest and Maverick arguing over something trivial. Hank sat on the curb, strumming his acoustic guitar, Ethel, softly.
Moonchild climbed into the van without a word. They slipped the stone into their pocket, its weight grounding them in a way they couldn’t explain.
Later, as the van rolled back onto the highway, Moonchild glanced out the window. The forest was dark, the clearing long gone. But in the glass, they thought they saw a faint shimmer—a flicker of something that wasn’t quite a reflection.
They blinked, and it was gone.
The band didn’t notice the change right away, but Moonchild felt it. The weight of the tour was still there, but it didn’t press as hard. Jack’s words echoed in their mind, quiet but persistent.
Sometimes, they thought about the fire, the clearing, the man who seemed to know them better than they knew themselves. And sometimes, when the silence stretched long, they felt the stone in their pocket, a reminder that they were enough for the moment.
For now, that was all it could be.
Reflections on the Road: The Muse’s Lament
The motel room was quiet, except for the faint hum of the neon sign outside the window. The rest of the band had scattered. Blade was probably at the bar, Maverick tuning his bass in the van, Tempest arguing with Rico over tomorrow’s route, and Moonchild... somewhere Moonchild needed to be. Hank had stayed behind, drawn by the solitude he rarely allowed himself to feel.
He sat on the edge of the bed, a notebook open in his lap. The pages were a mess of scribbled lines, half-formed verses, and jagged sketches. The pen in his hand hovered over the paper, unmoving. His gaze had drifted to the cracked mirror on the wall across from him.
“Phoebe,” he said softly, testing the sound of her name against the quiet. It felt like breaking something delicate.
The mirror was small, its edges warped and stained. It hung at an odd angle, catching the dim light of the room in fractured patterns. For a moment, Hank thought he saw her in it—her reflection, as if she were standing behind him. Just a trick of the light, he told himself. But he couldn’t look away.
He remembered her voice, clear and bright, like a song he’d forgotten the words to but could still hum. She had been the first to tell him he could do this—write songs, sing them, be someone. She had been his first fan, his harshest critic, his muse. And then she was gone.
It had been years, but the loss hadn’t softened. Time didn’t heal, Hank had learned; it just gave you new ways to carry the weight. The guilt came in waves, crashing when he least expected it. He could hear her laughter in the echoes of their music, see her face in the eyes of strangers in the crowd. She was everywhere and nowhere.
The Shadowglass had started after she disappeared. He’d stumbled upon it—no, it had found him—one night when the grief was too loud to ignore. A mirror, much like the one on the wall, though larger and darker. Its surface had shimmered, revealing glimpses of things he couldn’t explain. And in those glimpses, he thought he saw her.
That was the part he couldn’t admit to anyone, not even the band. Not even himself. The idea that she might still be out there, somewhere, trapped or lost, or... worse. The Shadowglass whispered to him in ways that were impossible to forget.
He picked up the notebook again, flipping to a blank page. The words wouldn’t come, but the memories did.
She had been sixteen, wild and sharp-tongued, always pushing him to be better. When he brought her rough drafts of his lyrics, she tore them apart with ruthless precision, then helped him put them back together. “You’re not bad,” she’d said once, grinning. “You’re just lazy.”
He’d laughed at the time, but her words stuck. Every song he wrote now felt like chasing a ghost, trying to prove something to someone who wasn’t there.
The door opened and Moonchild stepped in. They paused when they saw him, their usual calm replaced by something softer. “You okay?” they asked.
Hank shrugged, closing the notebook. “Yeah.”
Moonchild sat on the floor near the window, their back against the wall. They didn’t press him. That was the thing about Moonchild—they always seemed to know when silence was what someone needed.
“I keep thinking about her,” Hank said after a while. The words felt heavy, like they’d been waiting too long to be spoken.
Moonchild tilted their head, listening.
“She was... everything,” he continued. “The reason I started all of this. And now...”
Moonchild didn’t reply right away. Instead, they reached into their pocket and pulled out a small, polished stone—the one they always carried. They rolled it between their fingers, watching it catch the light.
“She’d be proud of you,” they said finally. “Of what you’ve built. What we’ve built.”
Hank wanted to believe that. But the Shadowglass lingered in the back of his mind, its whispers tugging at the edges of his thoughts.
Later, when Moonchild had gone, Hank stood in front of the mirror. He stared at his reflection, waiting for it to shift, to show him something more. The motel room stayed still, the only sound the faint buzz of the neon sign.
“Where are you, Phoebe?” he whispered.
The mirror gave no answer. But for a moment, just a moment, the light seemed to dim, and he thought he saw something—a shadow, a flicker, a face that wasn’t his. Then it was gone.
Hank sat back down, his notebook open once more. He wrote, not knowing if the words were for her, for himself, or for the empty space she’d left behind.
I carry you in every song, in every word, in every silence.
The pen stopped moving. He closed the notebook and set it aside. Outside, the world moved on, the highway stretching endlessly into the night.
Hank sat in the quiet, waiting for the grief to settle. It never did, not completely. But somewhere in the weight of it, there was something else—something he couldn’t name. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was her.
Or maybe it was just a reflection.
Reflections on the Road: The Lighthouse That Screamed
The coastal town of Blackrock sat at the edge of the world, where jagged cliffs met a restless sea. The band had come on a whim, chasing whispers of inspiration. The locals were wary, their faces worn by salt air and unspoken stories, but the band didn’t mind. They weren’t here to fit in.
The lighthouse loomed over the town, a sentinel of stone and rusted iron. Its light cut through the fog like a blade, sweeping across the dark waves. By day, it was imposing. By night, it felt alive.
“Tell me that thing doesn’t look haunted,” Blade said, leaning on the hood of the van. The others followed his gaze to the lighthouse, its silhouette stark against the twilight.
“It’s just old,” Tempest replied, though his voice lacked conviction.
Hank said nothing. He stood apart from the group, his notebook in hand, scribbling notes that no one could decipher but him.
Moonchild tilted their head. “It’s got a vibe, though. Like it’s watching us.”
Maverick rolled his eyes. “Everything has a vibe to you.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
That night, they stayed in a weathered inn near the shore. The walls creaked with every gust of wind, and the windows rattled like they were trying to escape their frames. The innkeeper, a grizzled man who looked like he hadn’t slept in years, muttered something as he handed over the keys.
“What was that?” Hank asked.
The man hesitated, then said, “Stay inside. Especially when it screams.”
Blade laughed. “When what screams?”
The innkeeper’s gaze flicked to the lighthouse. “You’ll hear it.”
They didn’t have to wait long. It started just after midnight, a low, guttural sound that crawled through the air like smoke. It built slowly, growing sharper, higher, until it became a wail that seemed to cut through the walls and straight into their bones.
“What the hell is that?” Maverick said, sitting up in bed.
“The wind?” Tempest offered, though he didn’t sound convinced.
Moonchild stood at the window, their face pale in the moonlight. “It’s coming from the lighthouse.”
They gathered in the common room, the scream still echoing faintly outside. The innkeeper was gone, his chair by the fireplace empty. The band debated what to do, their voices hushed, as if the walls might be listening.
“We can’t just stay here,” Blade said. “What if someone’s hurt?”
“It’s a lighthouse, not a murder scene,” Tempest shot back.
Hank closed his notebook and stood. “We’re going.”
The walk to the lighthouse was treacherous. The path was slick with rain, and the wind whipped around them like a living thing. The scream grew louder as they approached, an unearthly sound that made the hairs on their arms stand on end.
The door was ajar, swinging on rusty hinges. Hank pushed it open, and they stepped inside.
The air was thick and damp, carrying the scent of brine and decay. The walls were lined with old photographs, their edges curled and yellowed. One caught Moonchild’s attention—a black-and-white image of a shipwreck, its hull splintered against the rocks. Below it was a caption: The Echo’s Fall, 1923.
“This feels... wrong,” Moonchild said.
Blade ignored them, moving toward the spiral staircase. “Let’s check the top.”
The climb was grueling. The steps were narrow, their metal frames slick with moisture. The scream seemed to pulse through the walls, growing louder with each step. When they reached the top, they found an empty room. The light still turned, its mechanism groaning with each rotation.
But the scream hadn’t stopped.
“It’s coming from below,” Maverick said, his voice tight.
They descended into the lower levels, the air growing colder with each step. At the base of the lighthouse, they found a door marked Keepers Only. It was locked, but Blade didn’t hesitate. He rammed his shoulder into it, the wood splintering on the third try.
Inside was a small chamber, lit by a single, flickering bulb. In the center was a mirror, its surface dark and rippling like water. Around it were symbols etched into the floor, patterns that seemed to shift when they weren’t looking directly at them.
“The Shadowglass,” Hank whispered.
Tempest stared at him. “You’ve seen this before?”
Hank nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the mirror. “Not this one. But something like it.”
The scream was deafening now, coming from the mirror itself. The surface rippled, and for a moment, they saw something—a figure, its face obscured, reaching out. Then it was gone.
Moonchild stepped forward, their hand hovering over the glass. “What is it?”
“A warning,” Hank said, pulling them back. “Or a call.”
“To what?” Blade asked.
Hank didn’t answer. He just turned and started up the stairs. “We’re leaving.”
Back at the inn, the scream stopped as suddenly as it had started. The innkeeper was waiting for them, his expression grim.
“You saw it,” he said.
Hank nodded. “What’s the connection to the shipwreck?”
The innkeeper hesitated, then said, “The Echo’s Fall wasn’t just a ship. It was carrying something. Something that should’ve stayed buried.”
The band left Blackrock the next morning. No one spoke much as the van rumbled away from the coast. The lighthouse disappeared into the mist, its secrets still waiting.
Hank sat in the back, his notebook open on his lap. He wrote a single line before closing it again: When the light fades, the echoes remain.
And for a long time, the band drove in silence, the weight of the night pressing against them like the fog that never seemed to lift.
Reflections on the Road: The Shadowglass Motel
The motel stood on the edge of a desolate highway, its sign flickering weakly against the stormy night. The rain had started hours ago, relentless and cold, drumming against the van’s roof as the band argued about whether to stop. When the headlights caught the motel’s sagging roof and peeling paint, they all knew they had no choice.
Inside, the air smelled of damp carpet and old cigarettes. The manager barely looked at them as he handed over the keys, his hand trembling.
“You’re the only guests,” he said. “Storm scared everyone off.”
Hank raised an eyebrow. “What about you?”
The man didn’t answer.
The rooms were worse than expected. The wallpaper was peeling, and the beds sagged in the middle. A single, cracked mirror hung above each dresser, catching the dim light from flickering bulbs.
“I’ve stayed in worse,” Blade said, dropping his bag onto the bed. No one believed him.
Moonchild stood by their mirror, staring at their reflection. “Something feels... off.”
Tempest sighed, kicking off his boots. “It’s a crappy motel. Everything’s off.”
But Moonchild didn’t move.
The storm intensified, lightning slicing through the sky. Maverick sat on his bed, plucking absentmindedly at his bass. The mirrors bothered him too, though he wouldn’t admit it. Every time he glanced at his reflection, it felt wrong. The movements didn’t match his own, subtle at first but unmistakable if he watched long enough.
In the next room, Hank stared at his mirror. The surface seemed to ripple like water, distorting his face into something unfamiliar. He shook his head, but the image stayed, watching him with hollow eyes.
By midnight, the air in the motel felt heavy, suffocating. Moonchild sat cross-legged on their bed, the mirror directly in their line of sight. They tried to ignore it, but their reflection shifted when they didn’t. It whispered, faint and unintelligible, just on the edge of hearing.
“What do you want?” Moonchild asked softly.
The reflection tilted its head, its mouth moving silently.
Blade had the loudest reaction. A crash echoed through the thin walls as he hurled his drumsticks at the mirror, shattering it. The others rushed into his room to find him standing there, breathing heavily.
“It was laughing at me,” he said, his voice low.
Maverick frowned. “The mirror?”
Blade nodded. “It showed me... things. Stuff I don’t talk about.”
They gathered in Hank’s room, their unease thick in the air. Moonchild refused to sit near the mirror, and Maverick avoided looking at it entirely. Blade paced the floor, his footsteps heavy.
“Something’s wrong with this place,” Moonchild said.
“No kidding,” Tempest muttered, his arms crossed. “But it’s just mirrors. They’re not real.”
“They felt real,” Hank said quietly. His voice carried weight, cutting through the room.
“What did you see?” Maverick asked.
Hank hesitated. “Something that shouldn’t exist. Something that knows me.”
The room fell silent.
The shadows began to move just after two in the morning. At first, it was subtle—a flicker in the corner of their eyes, shapes that didn’t belong. But soon, they spilled from the mirrors, pooling on the floor like ink.
Moonchild was the first to notice. “Look!” they said, their voice trembling. “They’re getting closer.”
The others froze, watching as the shadows slithered toward them. They moved with purpose, tendrils reaching out as if searching.
“Out!” Hank shouted. “We need to go now!”
The hallway was worse. Shadows stretched along the walls, their movements jagged and unnatural. The air grew colder with each step, their breaths visible in the dim light.
The front desk was empty when they reached it. The manager was gone, his chair overturned. Outside, the storm raged, rain pounding against the windows.
“The van,” Tempest said, his voice shaking. “We have to get to the van.”
But the front door wouldn’t budge. The shadows pressed against the glass, seeping through cracks in the frame.
Hank led them back toward the rooms, searching for another way out. The mirrors in the hallway reflected their panic, but something was wrong. The reflections didn’t match their movements. Instead, they stood still, watching.
“What do they want?” Maverick asked, his voice breaking.
“To trap us,” Moonchild said. “To make us like them.”
“How do you know?” Blade demanded.
Moonchild didn’t answer. They just ran.
They found a window in the last room, the glass streaked with rain. Tempest grabbed a chair, smashing it against the frame until it shattered. The storm roared through the opening, soaking them instantly.
One by one, they climbed out, the shadows pressing closer with every second. Hank was the last to go, his gaze lingering on the mirror. For a moment, he thought he saw Phoebe’s face, her eyes pleading. Then the shadow reached for him, and he jumped.
The van was still in the lot, its headlights dim through the rain. They piled in, slamming the doors shut. Rico, who had been asleep in the driver’s seat, jolted awake.
“What the hell happened?” he demanded.
“Drive,” Hank said, his voice firm. “Just drive.”
As the van sped away, the motel disappeared into the darkness, swallowed by the storm. No one spoke, their breaths heavy and hearts pounding.
Moonchild clutched their knees to their chest, staring out the window. “It wasn’t just mirrors,” they said softly. “It was us. Our fears. Our regrets.”
Hank nodded, his grip tight on his notebook. “And something else.”
“What?” Maverick asked.
Hank didn’t reply. Instead, he opened the notebook and wrote a single line: The Shadowglass calls.
And somewhere behind them, in the place where the motel had stood, the mirrors sat empty, calling to the next travelers.
Reflections on the Road: Accordion Man’s Traveling Circus
The circus appeared without warning, a swirl of lights and music rising from the empty field just outside the town. The band first spotted it as they drove back from a forgettable gig, the van rattling along the backroads. A billboard that hadn’t been there before now proclaimed: “Accordion Man’s Traveling Circus: A Night of Wonders!”
“This has to be a joke,” Tempest said, leaning forward from the back seat. The garish colors of the sign cast strange shadows on his face.
“Even if it is,” Blade replied, “it’s better than going straight to another crappy motel.”
Hank, sitting in the passenger seat, stared at the billboard longer than the others. The lights seemed to pulse, almost like they were breathing. “Let’s check it out,” he said.
The field was alive with motion when they arrived. Tents in colors too vivid to be real rose from the grass, their spires reaching into the starless sky. Strings of lights twisted through the air, as if hung by invisible hands. A smell of popcorn and something sweet but unrecognizable drifted toward them.
The band stepped out of the van, uneasy but curious. A ticket booth stood at the entrance, though no one manned it. A sign read: “Admission: One Story Per Person.”
“What does that mean?” Maverick asked.
“Only one way to find out,” Blade said, already stepping forward.
Inside the circus, the air shimmered. The paths twisted in impossible ways, leading to tents that seemed closer or farther depending on how you looked at them. Performers wandered between the crowds—if you could call them crowds. Most of the attendees didn’t look entirely real. Their faces were blurry, their laughter distant.
The ringleader appeared from nowhere. One moment the band was alone, and the next he stood before them, an accordion strapped to his chest. He was tall and wiry, with a wide grin that showed too many teeth. His top hat sat slightly askew, and his coat sparkled as if dusted with stars.
“Welcome, welcome!” he said, his voice lilting like a song. “I am the Accordion Man, and tonight, you are my honored guests!”
The Accordion Man led them to the main tent, his accordion wheezing softly as he walked. Inside, the air was warm and thick, the scent of incense mingling with something metallic. The seats were empty, but the ring was full of movement—acrobats twisting in midair, fire-dancers spinning flames that didn’t seem to burn, and a contortionist folding into shapes that made Maverick wince.
“This is insane,” Tempest whispered.
“It’s amazing,” Moonchild said, their eyes wide.
The Accordion Man clapped his hands and the performers froze. “Now,” he said, “for the main event.”
The lights dimmed and the Accordion Man began to play. The notes didn’t sound like music; they sounded like memories. Hank felt it first—a wave of nostalgia so strong it nearly knocked him back. He saw flashes of his childhood, of Phoebe, her laughter ringing in his ears.
Blade gripped the edge of his seat, his knuckles white. He was back in a high school gym, pounding out rhythms on a borrowed drum kit, desperate to be heard.
Moonchild’s breathing quickened. They were standing on a cliff, the wind whipping their face, a vast ocean stretching below. A place they had dreamed of but never seen.
The music twisted, and so did the tent. The walls stretched and folded, the performers blending into the shadows. The ground felt unsteady, like the whole place might collapse into itself.
“Make it stop,” Maverick said, his voice tight. “Make it stop!”
The Accordion Man grinned, his fingers moving faster over the keys. “It doesn’t stop,” he said, “until you play your part.”
Hank forced himself to stand. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, but he stepped into the ring anyway. “What do you want?” he asked.
The Accordion Man’s grin widened. “Your story, of course.”
Hank hesitated, then nodded. He reached into his jacket, pulling out his notebook. The pages felt heavier than usual, as if they carried more than words. He tore out a sheet and handed it to the Accordion Man.
The ringleader’s eyes gleamed as he read. Then, with a flourish, he tucked the paper into his coat. “Excellent,” he said. “The show can go on.”
The tent shifted again, the chaos fading. The performers returned to their routines, the music softening. The band found themselves back at the entrance, the field eerily quiet.
“What just happened?” Blade asked, his voice shaking.
“We gave him what he wanted,” Hank said, his gaze fixed on the distant lights of the town.
Moonchild turned to him. “What did you write?”
Hank didn’t answer. He just climbed into the van, his notebook still clutched tightly in his hand.
As they drove away, the circus lights flickered once, then vanished. The field was empty, as if it had never been there.
No one spoke for a long time. When they finally reached the motel, Hank opened his notebook. The torn page wasn’t missing. Instead, the words he had written were back, but different, rearranged into something he didn’t recognize.
At the bottom of the page, a single line had appeared, written in a hand that wasn’t his:
The Echo Keepers always collect.
Hank closed the notebook and set it aside. Outside, the rain began to fall, soft but insistent, washing away the dust of the road.
Reflections on the Road: The Talking Pineapple Strikes Back
The diner looked the same as it had before—its flickering neon sign spelling out Silver Spoon Café (now with the “S” freshly repaired), the gravel lot scattered with trucks, and the faint smell of fried food wafting through the air. Blade rolled his eyes as the van pulled in.
“Why are we here again?” he asked, already regretting the stop.
“Because the burgers are great,” Tempest said, grabbing his bag.
“And because it’s hilarious,” Moonchild added with a grin, pointing toward the window where the pineapple mascot stood, hands on its hips, staring them down.
The band stepped inside, greeted by a cheer that was both unexpected and deafening. The diner was packed, and every table seemed to have someone wearing a pineapple-themed shirt, hat, or badge. Banners hung from the ceiling, declaring in bold letters: “Jerry the Pineapple: Our Town’s Hero!”
“What... is this?” Maverick asked, his voice laced with disbelief.
The waitress from their last visit bustled over, holding a tray of milkshakes. “You’re back!” she said, though her tone was more accusatory than welcoming. “Jerry’s been waiting for you.”
“Jerry?” Blade asked, even though he knew.
The pineapple mascot stepped forward, flanked by a group of teenagers wearing matching pineapple hats. The mascot raised one oversized foam hand in the air, a dramatic gesture that drew the room’s attention.
“Welcome back, challenger,” Jerry declared, the voice coming from a small speaker embedded in the suit. It was deep and theatrical, a stark contrast to the mascot’s cartoonish appearance. “Or should I say... former champion.”
Blade groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Jerry never kids,” Moonchild whispered, failing to suppress a laugh.
The diner erupted in applause as Jerry strutted to the center of the room, pointing directly at Blade. “Last time, you dishonored the art of percussion,” Jerry announced. “This town will not stand for such disrespect.”
“It was a joke!” Blade protested. “I didn’t even know you were—”
“A rematch!” someone shouted from the back of the room.
“Showdown!” another voice called.
The crowd picked up the chant. “Showdown! Showdown! Showdown!”
Hank leaned against the counter, smirking. “You’re not getting out of this.”
Blade glared at him. “I’m not doing it.”
The waitress shook her head. “You don’t have a choice. Jerry’s been training. The whole town’s been watching.”
“Training for what?” Blade asked, exasperated.
Jerry stepped forward, a small drum kit wheeled out by one of the pineapple hat kids. “For this,” Jerry said, picking up a pair of drumsticks. “A duel of rhythm. Winner takes the title of Pineapple King.”
“Pineapple King?” Blade repeated, incredulous.
“You want to back out?” Jerry taunted, twirling the sticks. “Afraid of a little fruit?”
The crowd circled around them as Blade reluctantly took his place at a second drum kit. The diner buzzed with excitement, phones held aloft to capture the spectacle. Moonchild grabbed a seat at the counter, shaking their head. “This is the weirdest timeline.”
“It’s definitely top three,” Tempest agreed.
Hank leaned in. “Five bucks says Jerry wins.”
Maverick snorted. “No one’s taking that bet.”
Jerry started the duel with a quick, precise rhythm, the kind that shouldn’t have been possible with foam hands. The crowd roared their approval. Blade sighed, shook his head, and answered with a complex beat of his own, his hands moving faster than the eye could follow.
The room grew quiet as the duel escalated. Jerry’s movements were almost hypnotic, his rhythm blending seamlessly into the background noise of the diner. Blade countered with raw speed and improvisation, his frustration bleeding into every beat.
“Jerry’s... good,” Maverick admitted, watching in awe.
“Too good,” Moonchild said, narrowing their eyes. “It’s unnatural.”
As the duel reached its peak, the lights in the diner flickered. The air felt charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm. Blade’s focus wavered for a split second and Jerry seized the opportunity, delivering a final, thunderous beat that shook the room.
The crowd erupted in cheers. Jerry stood, triumphant, raising his drumsticks in the air.
Blade dropped his sticks, slumping back in his chair. “This town is insane.”
The waitress handed Jerry a golden pineapple trophy, which the mascot held aloft for all to see. “The Pineapple King reigns!” Jerry declared.
Moonchild leaned toward Hank. “Do you see that?”
Hank followed their gaze. In the mirror behind the counter, Jerry’s reflection didn’t match his movements. It lagged slightly, the foam arms hanging limp while the real Jerry celebrated.
“Yeah,” Hank said softly. “I see it.”
As the band made their way back to the van, the crowd’s cheers still echoing behind them, Moonchild paused, glancing back at the diner. The mirror caught their eye again, and for a moment, they thought they saw something in it—a faint shimmer, like rippling water.
“What’s wrong?” Maverick asked, stopping beside them.
“Nothing,” Moonchild said after a pause. “Just... thinking.”
Maverick shrugged and climbed into the van. Moonchild lingered for a moment longer, staring at the diner until the lights flickered one last time.
As they drove away, Blade slumped in his seat, arms crossed. “This never happened,” he said.
“Sure,” Hank replied, grinning. “No one will ever know.”
Behind them, the diner faded into the distance, its neon sign glowing faintly through the rain. In the rearview mirror, the shimmer followed them for a few moments before disappearing entirely.
No one mentioned it.
Not that night, anyway.
Reflections on the Road: Reflections in the Static
The van cut through the empty highway, the headlights carving weak arcs into the darkness. The night stretched endlessly, the only sound was the faint hum of the tires on the road. Blade sat in the back, tapping his drumsticks against his knees in a rhythm too quiet to hear. Maverick leaned his head against the window, his bass case balanced precariously beside him. Moonchild stared out into the black void of the landscape, their thoughts far away.
Hank was in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio. Most stations were static, the occasional burst of faint music or garbled voices bleeding through. He turned the dial slowly, as if searching for something he couldn’t name.
Rico, driving, shot him a glance. “Give it up, Hank. We’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing out here.”
Hank ignored him, the static hissing like a living thing. Then, suddenly, the noise shifted. A voice cut through, low and distorted. The words were almost intelligible, but not quite.
“What was that?” Moonchild asked, leaning forward.
“I don’t know,” Hank said, his fingers tightening on the dial. He turned it back, and the voice returned.
“—warned them before. But they didn’t listen.”
The voice faded, replaced by a strange melody—haunting, like something out of an old music box. It made the air in the van feel heavier, the space between them tighter. The band exchanged glances, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned.
“Is this some prank?” Blade asked, breaking the silence. “Like those pirate radio stations?”
“Doesn’t feel like a prank,” Maverick said quietly, his reflection barely visible in the window.
The melody faded, replaced by the voice again, clearer this time.
“They walk the road of shadows. The glass will break, and they will fall.”
The van fell silent. Even Blade’s drumming stopped. Hank leaned closer to the radio, his hand frozen on the dial.
“Is it talking about us?” Moonchild asked, their voice low.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rico said, though his grip on the wheel tightened. “It’s just a weird signal. Probably some creepy local station trying to mess with people.”
But no one looked convinced.
The voice continued, rising and falling with the static. The words were fragmented, as if spoken from a great distance.
“They won’t escape. The echoes will claim them.”
Maverick shifted uncomfortably. “Okay, this is too much. Turn it off.”
Hank hesitated but finally twisted the knob. The static returned, blanketing the van in its oppressive white noise. He stared at the radio for a moment longer before leaning back in his seat.
No one spoke.
Ten minutes later, the voice returned on its own. The radio flicked on with a burst of static, the dial glowing faintly. Hank hadn’t touched it.
“—know the price of the path they’ve chosen,” the voice said, louder this time.
“Turn it off!” Blade snapped, his tone sharper than usual.
Hank reached for the knob, but the voice continued, undeterred.
“Beware the mirrors. Beware the shadows. The glass sees everything.”
The van hit a pothole, jolting them all. The voice faded again, replaced by the faint sound of distant laughter.
“This is insane,” Tempest said, his voice breaking the uneasy quiet. “We should stop somewhere. Anywhere.”
“There’s nowhere to stop,” Rico muttered. He kept his eyes on the road, but his expression was tense. The van’s headlights reflected off the asphalt, the yellow lines blurring in the rain that had begun to fall.
Moonchild leaned forward, their gaze fixed on the radio. “What if it’s not random?”
“What if what’s not random?” Rico asked, his frustration bleeding through.
Moonchild hesitated. “The signal. What if it’s... meant for us?”
No one answered, but the tension in the van deepened. Maverick clenched his jaw, staring out at the empty road. Blade tapped his drumsticks nervously against the seat. Even Hank looked unsettled, his usual calm replaced by something heavier.
The voice returned again, its tone sharper, more urgent.
“They think they can outrun it. But the mirrors never forget. The echoes never fade.”
A chill ran through the van, colder than the rain seeping through the cracks in the windows.
The band reached a small diner just past midnight, its flickering neon sign the only sign of life for miles. They stumbled inside, their faces pale and their nerves frayed. The waitress gave them a curious glance but said nothing, setting down menus without a word.
Hank pulled out his notebook, scribbling furiously. Moonchild sat across from him, their eyes darting toward the diner’s small radio, which played faintly in the corner. It was tuned to an oldies station, the static creeping in and out.
“What do you think it means?” Moonchild asked, breaking the silence.
Hank didn’t look up. “I don’t know. But it knows us. Somehow.”
As they ate, the radio in the corner shifted. The music faded, replaced by the same haunting melody they’d heard in the van. The waitress froze, her tray trembling in her hands.
“You should leave,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Why?” Tempest asked, his fork halfway to his mouth.
The waitress glanced at the radio, then back at them. “This place... it’s not safe for people like you.”
“People like us?” Blade asked, narrowing his eyes.
The waitress didn’t answer. She turned and walked away, her steps hurried.
The band left soon after, the rain still falling as they climbed into the van. Hank turned the key, the engine sputtering to life. The radio stayed silent this time, but the weight of the voice lingered.
As they drove into the night, no one spoke. The words from the broadcast echoed in their minds.
Beware the mirrors. Beware the shadows. The glass sees everything.
And somewhere, in the static between stations, the voice waited, ready to speak again.
Reflections on the Road: Tomorrow’s Refrain
The cabin was perched on the edge of a lake, its wooden frame weathered but sturdy. It was a gift from a fan—one of those offers that usually felt too good to be true, but this time, they’d taken the chance. After weeks on the road, the band needed quiet, even if the quiet sometimes felt like another kind of chaos.
The air smelled of pine and rain-soaked earth. The lake mirrored the overcast sky, its surface broken only by the occasional ripple of fish or the wind’s touch. Inside, the fireplace crackled softly, warming the room as the band settled into their own rhythms.
Blade sat cross-legged on the floor, his drumsticks tapping a soft, steady beat against the side of his suitcase. Tempest leaned on the arm of the couch, her guitar in her lap, fingers idly plucking at the strings. Moonchild sat at the window, their notebook open but untouched, their eyes fixed on the water. Maverick lounged in the corner, his bass leaning against the wall beside him, a book open in his lap. Hank sat at the dining table, his notebook spread out before him, the pages chaotic with scribbles and half-finished lines.
They hadn’t spoken much since they arrived. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it carried the weight of everything they’d been through—the strange diners, the shifting mirrors, the voices in the static. Each of them had felt it, the pull of something larger and more terrifying than they wanted to admit. But here, in the cabin, it was easier to push it aside. For now.
“What if it starts with the beat?” Blade asked, breaking the quiet. He tapped a faster rhythm, a pulse that filled the room.
Tempest nodded, adjusting her grip on the guitar. “Something like this?” She strummed a progression, simple but resonant, the notes hanging in the air.
Hank looked up from his notebook. “That works. Build on it.”
Moonchild turned from the window, their pen finally moving across the page. “What’s it about?”
“The road,” Maverick said without hesitation. “All of it.”
The music grew, piece by piece, like they were fitting together a puzzle. Blade’s rhythm anchored them, steady and insistent. Tempest’s guitar added texture, the notes weaving through the beat. Maverick picked up his bass, his low tones grounding the melody. Moonchild’s voice hummed quietly, testing harmonies that hadn’t yet found words.
Hank watched them, his pen racing to keep up with the song taking shape. The lines came easier now, as if the pieces had been waiting for this moment to fall into place.
“Sing it,” Tempest said, nodding toward Hank.
He hesitated. “It’s not done.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” Moonchild said, their voice soft but certain. “Just start.”
Hank took a breath, then began to sing. The words were raw, fragments stitched together with the rhythm and melody. They spoke of the road, the strange places they’d been, the fears they’d faced, and the hope that kept them moving.
The others joined in, their voices blending, imperfect but full. The sound filled the cabin, wrapping around them like the fire’s warmth.
When the song ended, the room was quiet again. Blade let his drumsticks fall to his lap, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. Tempest leaned back, her fingers brushing the strings one last time. Maverick stretched, his bass propped against the wall again, his smile faint but genuine. Moonchild closed their notebook, the words still spilling over the edges of their mind.
Hank sat back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the fireplace. “It’s not bad,” he said, his tone understated.
“It’s better than not bad,” Blade replied. “It’s us.”
The storm that had been threatening finally broke, rain tapping against the windows in a soothing rhythm. Moonchild moved closer to the fire, their notebook resting on their knees. “Do you think it’s enough?”
“What do you mean?” Maverick asked.
“To keep going,” Moonchild said. “After everything.”
Tempest looked at them, her expression thoughtful. “It has to be.”
Hank nodded, his notebook closed but still in his hand. “We’ve made it this far.”
The rain softened, the sound blending with the crackle of the fire. Outside, the lake reflected the first glimmers of stars breaking through the clouds. The cabin felt smaller now, not in a suffocating way, but like it held them closer, tighter.
The Shadowglass, the whispers in the static, the strange faces in the mirrors—they hadn’t forgotten. Those things lingered, shadowing the edges of their world. But for now, they didn’t need answers. They had the music, and the music was enough.
The night stretched on, the song looping in their heads, reshaping itself with every pass. They talked about adding a bridge, tweaking the lyrics, maybe slowing the tempo in the second verse. It wasn’t perfect, but it was alive, and that was what mattered.
As the fire burned low, the band drifted into quiet again. Blade dozed off against the couch, his drumsticks still in his hand. Maverick leaned back in his chair, his eyes half-closed. Moonchild watched the flames, their notebook open but untouched once more. Tempest strummed her guitar softly, the sound blending with the rain.
Hank stared at the closed notebook on the table, his fingers brushing its cover. He didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in weeks, he felt like it was worth finding out.
Somewhere in the distance, a single note echoed—a faint, familiar hum carried by the wind. It might have been the lake, or the trees, or nothing at all. But in that moment, it sounded like tomorrow.