Tag: author

The studio got to know her quickly.

It got used to her the way old buildings get used to their people—by routine, not attentiveness. By midweek, doors opened before she arrived. Someone lingered at the handle, uncertain why. Schedules stayed on track—imperfect, at times requiring pushback —but they stayed on track. Every morning, the kettle whistled, clear and sharp, always at the same time. No one wondered when the sound had shifted from a break to a marker of time.

Celeste moved through the studio as if she had always belonged there, her steps quiet and deliberate, blending unnoticed into the space’s routine.

She kept her phone face down.

Her phone sat near the edge of the counter where Celeste worked. She placed it close enough to feel its vibrations while she labeled folders, aligning their spines and smoothing the corners with her thumb before reaching for the buzzing device.

Miami in blue. Winter in grey. April in red, untouched.

Only then did she turn the screen over.

An unfamiliar name. No photo. No embellishment. A plain subject line that carried no promise and no threat.

Your recent post.

She read it while standing, leaning one shoulder against the counter as the room moved around her. The drums tried out a new tempo, first unsure, then stronger. Brett’s guitar played quietly underneath it all. Paul’s voice broke through the noise, impatient, sharp enough to make people look up and then look away.

The email was careful. Exact.

He wrote about restraint. He mentioned how the ending avoided the easy choice, and how that choice kept the piece strong, like a spine that stays straight. He quoted one of her sentences back to her, with the punctuation just right. He didn’t ask who she was, where she lived, or what she did for work.

He thanked her for leaving space.

Celeste read it once, then again more slowly, as if looking for something beyond the words. She closed the message without replying and put her phone back in her bag, the zipper making a quiet, final sound.

The world resumed around her.

Nao walked by on his way to the amp, already smiling before he reached her. “Tea’s perfect,” he said, meaning it, and kept moving, leaving the words behind as a small gesture.

Paul watched from the center of the room, mic cord looped tight around his wrist, the cable wound and rewound without need.

Paul called, his voice sudden in the quiet. “Hey, Goth Nun.”

She did not look up.

He added, addressing the room rather than her, “Is it against your vows to answer?” His voice was pitched outward, light.

The others acted like they didn’t hear. Leo fiddled with his camera strap, staring at the buckle. Peter shifted his bass, checking the strings even though nothing had changed. Brett’s jaw tightened and relaxed, so slightly it was easy to miss.

Celeste walked over to the whiteboard, marker in hand. She changed the schedule: noon became eleven-thirty. She did not explain the shift; she only made it, the marker squeaking softly until the update stuck.

Paul laughed, short and sharp. “See? Miracles.”

Celeste moved between stations throughout the morning—passing water, collecting empty cups, and making a note where a note would save time. She adjusted her pace to match the studio’s quiet requests, never rushing or slowing, simply responding to what was needed.

Later, she replied.

She wrote two sentences: a simple thank you and a plain observation about rhythm, set down gently, not meant to make a splash. She sent it and closed her laptop without waiting for a reply.

Thursday was crisp and cold. The change could be felt before sunrise.

The wind cleared the night. By morning, the city felt sharper, with clear lines and corners. In the cold, sounds traveled farther, but everything seemed quieter, as if New York was listening. The sky was a pale gray, giving neither warmth nor the promise of snow.

Celeste arrived early, just as she always did.

The studio lobby smelled of cleaning solution and old coffee. The lights hummed quietly, still a little dim. Her footsteps echoed more than they would later, once the place was busy. She took off her coat, folded it, and hung it on her usual hook outside the main walkway.

Her hands were cold when she reached the kitchenette. She filled the kettle, set it on the burner, and stood close so the first steam warmed her knuckles. The ache behind her eyes flared with the change in temperature, a dull pressure that faded quickly, as familiar as breathing. She ignored it. She knew which feelings needed action and which could just be noticed.

While the water heated, she got to work.

She stacked and straightened the call sheets, tapping their edges on the counter. Boarding passes printed quietly, each destination clear in black type. She sorted them by leg and date, the paper soft under her fingers. In a rider halfway through a folder, she found a typo that had slipped through three reviews. One letter was off, changing the meaning just enough to matter. She fixed it, signed the margin, and moved on.

An email arrived from a venue contact who had been stuck on the same issue for days. She read it, replied with three words, and sent it before the kettle boiled. The problem was solved quietly.water slowly, steam rising in a thin, steady line. The scent of herbs filled the small space, grounding and familiar. She wrapped her hands around the mug, letting the heat seep in, watching her breath fog faintly above it.

Her phone vibrated on the counter. She didn’t pick it up right away. She finished setting out the mugs, placing them where people would grab them without thinking. Only then did she pick up her phone.

The reply came faster this time.

She leaned against the counter as she read, the room quiet around her. Down the hall, someone tapped a drumstick. A guitar hummed softly as it was tuned. Voices murmured, still soft and unfocused.

He wrote about listening.

He talked about letting a line stand on its own, trusting the silence around it to do some of the work. He mentioned breath, how a sentence revealed itself when spoken aloud, and how sound could show where language tried too hard. His words were precise, careful, but not cautious.

At the end, he asked one question, as if he was hesitant to include it, tucked after a paragraph break.

Do you ever revise aloud?

She read it twice.

The corner of her mouth turned up, just a little, an involuntary response. The expression faded quickly, smoothed away by habit. She locked the screen and put the phone back in her bag, the zipper closing with a quiet, final sound.

The day moved on.

Paul’s shadow crossed the counter as he leaned close, blocking the overhead light. The sudden absence of brightness made her blink once, slowly.

“You on confession duty now?” he asked, glancing at the mugs lined up. “Or is that later?”

She picked up a mug without saying anything and set it where his hand would land. She didn’t look at him as she did it.

He took it without thinking, his fingers closing around the handle. He felt the warmth before he realized it. His grip tightened a little, then relaxed.

He lowered his voice so only she could hear. “Careful. You keep staring at that phone, people might think you’ve got a life.”

She looked at him then.

Her gaze was calm and steady. It didn’t rise to meet his or drop away. It just held, the way she held everything else. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then she looked past him, her eyes finding the clock high on the wall. The second hand ticked loudly in the quiet, precise, and unforgiving.

“Next block in five,” she called out, her voice carrying. “Let’s reset.”

Paul’s jaw tightened. The humor left his posture, replaced by irritation.

He didn’t like that.

By afternoon, the comments grew sharper.

They came as small jabs, never quite crossing the line, but close enough to hurt if she reacted. The nickname returned, worn smooth by repetition, used like a hook cast again and again to see if it would catch.

“Goth Nun, you got our sins scheduled?”

“Goth Nun, pray for better monitors.”

“Goth Nun, you ever smile, or is that extra?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she shifted a break by ten minutes, trimming it just enough to keep momentum without igniting tempers. She rerouted a call to voicemail when she saw it would derail the room. She adjusted the order of two songs, placing the more volatile one earlier while the energy was still clean.

She felt every tug for her attention, every pull on the day. She responded with small, careful movements, barely noticeable unless you were watching. The room stayed balanced, even as pressure grew.

By late afternoon, the ache behind her eyes was stronger.

Sounds felt a little off, as if everything was half a beat behind. The light felt harsher than it should. She reached into her bag, took out aspirin, and swallowed it dry. She did it so often she barely noticed.

Paul noticed anyway.

He glanced at her, noticed the small movement, then looked away just as quickly. His mouth opened as if to say something, then closed again. He turned back to his mic, adjusting the stand with more force than needed.

As dusk came, the studio windows reflected more than they showed. The city outside faded into steel and shadow. When the room finally paused, Celeste stepped out for some air.

The river was just beyond the building, wide and indifferent. It carried the winter light, steel-grey and sharp. She stood with her hands in her coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. Her breath fogged once, twice, then settled into a steady rhythm.

On the far bank, traffic hissed as tires cut through damp pavement. Somewhere, a bell rang faintly, its sound thin and distant, almost lost in the wind. She stayed until the tightness in her chest eased and the world felt right again.

Her phone buzzed again in her bag. She didn’t take it out. She knew it could wait.

When she came back inside, the room quieted in a way she felt more than heard. Paul watched her cross the floor, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak. He didn’t joke. He didn’t look away.

The silence that followed her was heavier than anything he had said to her all day.

She took her place at the counter, straightened a stack of papers, and called the next segment without a word. The day moved on.

But something had changed.

And everyone in the room knew it.