Chapter 58
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Keane
This is a little surreal. I’m at a studio—a recording studio. This place isn’t in Seattle, and I’m grateful for that. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to go to Decker Records or . . . well, any other place where I would be recognized.
The studio is nestled in a sprawling mansion on Bainbridge Island. It belongs to the former members of Sinners of Seattle. The ground floor is all business: walls lined with acoustic panels, equipment humming softly, and the faint scent of wood polish and metal. Upstairs, there are rooms. This place can be rented for hours or months at a time. Not that I plan to be here for long.
I’ve been here all of twenty minutes, and it already feels like too much. The space is intimate but not suffocating. Every detail is designed to encourage creativity—or to mock you when you can’t find it.
Zeke sits on a battered leather couch against the back wall, his arms stretched along the top like he’s got all the time in the world. He’s not rushing me, not saying a word, just watching with that quiet patience he’s known for. I can’t decide if it’s comforting or unnerving. Maybe both. He looks at me like he’s waiting for the spark I’m not sure I still have.
The guitar rests on my lap, and it feels a lot heavier than it should be. It’s not just any guitar—it’s my first. A Christmas present when I was seven, too big for my hands back then. My father swore I’d grow into it. Now, it fits perfectly against me. Its shape is familiar, yet foreign. This used to be an extension of my self and not . . .
My fingers hover over the strings, unsure, hesitant. They don’t feel like mine anymore. Every movement feels foreign, like trying to speak a language I barely remember. I stare down at the worn wood, my pulse loud in my ears.
I suddenly blurt out the thought clawing at my chest, “What if I decide not to do anything today?”
”Take your time. This isn’t a race,” Zeke says with such calm, I breathe easily in response. “It’ll come, but if we have to leave, we will.”
I nod, swallowing hard. I want to believe him, to believe that I can do it. My physical therapist said it wasn’t just about my hands, and they were right. The stiffness in my fingers, the faint ache—it’s part of it, but it’s not the whole story.
The real problem is in my head. Every time I’ve tried to play, I’ve heard the crash. Felt the jolt through my body. Seen Ophelia’s face in the split second before everything went black. The music got tangled in the guilt, the loss, the memories. Picking up the guitar meant confronting all of it. And I think I can do that now, deal with it all.
The first chord I strum is tentative, almost apologetic. The sound vibrates through the room, faint but pure, and I let it linger. It feels like testing the water, dipping a toe in to see if it’s safe, warm, or at least not too cold to freeze me as I go in. My fingers shift, finding the next chord, and this time the sound is fuller, more confident. It’s not perfect—far from it—but it’s something.
“That’s a start,” Zeke says, nodding. “How does it feel?”
“Weird,” I admit, my voice rough. “Like I’m waiting for it to go wrong.”
“It won’t,” he says simply. “Stop thinking and start playing with your soul. Remember music is not about perfection, it’s about art.”
I glance at him, and the calm he radiates is both comforting and infuriating. It’s not that simple, but I know better than to argue. Instead, I take a breath and let my fingers move again, picking out a melody that’s been stuck in my head for the last couple of weeks. It’s nothing complicated, just a series of notes that loop and build. But as the sound fills the room, something shifts.
It’s far from perfect. My fingers stumble, catching awkwardly on the strings, and a faint buzz hums where the notes falter. But it’s there. The music is there—imperfect, flawed, alive. And for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s mine again. It’s me—changed, fractured, but somehow whole in a way I never expected.
Zeke leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So far it sounds good.”
“Yeah?” I glance at my hands. “I mean, it’s the beginning. Just something I’ve been messing around with but needed someone to listen to. What if I was just imagining that this was music . . .”
“It’s good,” he says. “Raw, but good. You need to build yourself back. Where’s the arrogant asshole the public used to worship and love?”
“Didn’t you read the news? He died,” I say, almost laughing at myself. “If I recall, you were at the funeral. My mother had the newspaper clips.”
He frowns. “Did she?”
“Nah, I’m just fucking with you. To this day I haven’t even looked at the videos of that day.”
“Probably a smart thing to do.” He nods. “But let’s not digress and focus on this.”
I let out a shaky breath, my fingers brushing over the strings. “I didn’t think I’d ever get back to this .”
“Why not?” he asks, his tone curious, not judgmental.
I shrug, my gaze fixed on the guitar. “Because it felt like I didn’t deserve it. The music, the . . . whatever this is. It felt too tangled up in everything I fucked up and all the people I lost.”
Zeke is quiet for a moment. “You ever think maybe the music is what kept you going before the accident?”
The question lingers in the silence, stretching between us like an unsteady bridge. Words won’t come, so I let my fingers take over, the melody shifting, morphing into something slower, more intentional. Each note feels like a cautious step forward, like I’m piecing together fragments of something I thought was lost forever. I’m suddenly not just playing—I’m reaching for it, and maybe, for myself.
“We should record that,” Zeke says after a while.
I glance up, startled. “What? I’m not ready.”
“You’re doing it—that’s as ready as you’ll ever be,” he tells me, as a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s record it. Hear how it sounds when you play it back.”
The thought sends a ripple of unease through me. Recording feels permanent, like putting something out into the world where it can be judged, dissected, torn apart. People can see the new me. A person who feels too fragile to be exposed like that. But beneath the hesitation, there’s a flicker of curiosity—a pull to hear it, to find out if it stands on its own, separate from the chaos in my mind.
“Fine,” I say finally. “Let’s do it.”
Zeke steps over to the control panel, flipping switches and adjusting dials with practiced ease. Then he returns to where I’m sitting, setting up the mic with careful precision. He tweaks the angle, checks the levels, and leans in slightly to ensure everything is just right before giving me a quick nod.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.
I take a deep breath, my fingers settling on the starting position of the strings. The air feels electric, as though it’s brimming with expectation, waiting for the first note to take shape. Or maybe it’s within me—an energy thrumming just beneath the surface, ready to spill out. My eyes drift closed, the familiar patterns of the melody coursing through my thoughts. Through my soul. And then I begin to play.
The melody flows out of me, hesitant at first but finding its rhythm with each note. It’s not flawless, but it’s real. The slips, the pauses—they’re woven into the music, into who I am. And I embrace it. Every note, every pause, every imperfection, every moment it feels like the music is speaking for me. It’s not about perfection. It’s about letting myself be seen, flaws and all.
When I finish, I open my eyes to find Zeke watching me. He doesn’t say anything, just hits a button on the panel and plays it back.
Hearing it is . . . surreal. It’s mine, but it’s not. The sound is richer, fuller, the flaws more pronounced but also more human. It’s not the kind of thing I’d have played in a packed venue years ago, but it’s real. It’s me. The new me.
“What do you think?” Zeke asks. “You just need to add some lyrics.”
I’m quiet for a long moment, listening as the last note fades. “It’s a start,” I say finally.
“An awesome fucking start,” he says, leaning back with a satisfied grin. “If you want me to add drums, I can do it. I can even ask Eth to put some bass on it—whenever you’re ready.”
“Your husband will add bass?” I say, almost excited because that would make this a song.
“If you’re ready, all the Sinners will be happy to help,” he says.
And how I wish my band were like them. When things began to get too fucked up around my life, they just dropped one by one until there was just me. Keane Stone. I could do without them, but to have a close-knit group is special.
“I would be grateful if you guys can help me, when I’m ready,” I state. Now the key is knowing when I’ll be ready.