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Alrighty then.
At first, I’m not sure what woke me.
Behind my eyes, there are squiggles and little circles—music notes. In my mind, I’m writing. Creating. And here, in the recesses of sleep, it doesn’t hurt. It feels…natural.
And there’s this itch, one I haven’t felt in a long time.
The one that calls to me, urging me to wake up, and write it down. Take out my piano and see how it sounds.
And then it’s quiet. Empty again.
Time loses all meaning…
And then it’s back. And this time, my eyes fly open.
Sitting up, I look around my small room. It’s dark, save for the red numbers lit up on the digital clock on the nightstand. 12:20.
I scrub the sleep from my eyes, and crack my back before scooting out of the bed.
From outside my room, an acoustic guitar thrums gently into the quiet of night, the only sound to be heard.
I don’t recognize the song, yet it calls to me.
Sings to me from a deep, forgotten place I haven’t so much as visited, much less thought of in months. Years…
As if under a trance, I find myself padding toward my door, and opening it. The music, louder now, though still playing quiet enough to be respectful, floods my senses.
I feel it in my buzzing, twitching fingertips.
Taste it, metallic and heady on my tongue.
Smell it, achingly sweet and familiar, like the scent that clings to the Montgomery house.
And I hear it…
I hear it down to my soul.
When is the last time I listened to music?
It’s a ridiculous question to wonder, seeing as music plays everywhere all the time. There’s really no escaping it, short of losing my ability to hear it, or wearing heavy duty earplugs.
But I’ve gotten used to tuning it out.
Blocking it out.
Yet, now, in this late hour, it’s as if a dam has broken in my head, releasing all the water that had flooded that chamber inside me. The one I practically lived in since I was a kid, obsessing over the need to collect every song I heard and loved.
It’s empty and exposed again now…waiting for me like I never left.
Helpless to not venture toward it, my feet carry me down the short hall to where the figure sitting against the wall strums what looks to be a classic Martin in his hand. Dark hair mussed all about. The same black shirt and gray sweats he had on yesterday.
My footsteps are quiet, slow, but he registers me right away, the music cutting off abruptly, just as his head snaps my way.
I hold up my hands, and not taking my eyes off his, I lower myself against the wall facing him. Two feet separate us, and I hope it’s enough.
Shawn’s gaze is dark and wary, but steady on mine, like maybe a part of him knew I would come.
Maybe that chamber exists in him too.
