Tag: Held Light Held Close

Held Light, Held Close – Chapter 6: What Lingered After Sugar

The cake was gone by morning.

There weren’t even crumbs left. A faint sweetness lingered near the back table. It faded under the smell of coffee, cables, and the metallic tang of warmed equipment. Celeste arrived early enough to notice it disappear. The scent blended with the room’s usual smells. Soon, it was gone.

She opened the windows an inch.

Cold air came in, clean and sharp, moving through the room. The city seemed to breathe with her. Below, a truck idled. Then it drove away. The window rattled once, then was still.

She set out mugs. Counted them. Recounted them. She set out one extra mug. Paused. Put it back in the cabinet. She turned the handle in, matching the others. Next, she turned on the kettle and waited, without hurrying.

She left her coat on the back of the chair and put her bag under the desk. She smoothed the arrival sheet with her hand and marked the time with a neat stroke.

Paul came in loudly.

The door swung open—loud. He threw his jacket at a chair that wasn’t his. Missed. Left it hanging halfway to the floor.

“Morning, Saint Baker,” he said, already grinning. “No miracles today?”

She kept her eyes on the page. Marked a name. Drew a line through another.

“Shame. Yesterday had a mood—like a crypt. Candles, guilt.”

Nao laughed quietly, a quick, bright sound edged with nerves. The laugh faded when Paul kept going, leaving a silence that pressed between them.

“Maybe tomorrow you can bring wafers,” Paul went on. “We can confess between takes.”

Celeste walked over and fixed a mic stand that was leaning a little too much. The metal made a soft sound as she adjusted it. She tested it twice. It stayed in place.

Paul followed her movement with his voice. “You know what I like? You never clap back. It’s like talking to a wall. A judgmental wall.”

She stopped at the whiteboard, erased a name, and wrote another below it. The order changed. No one said anything. Leo looked up. Adjusted his tuning. Stayed quiet. Brett nodded, looking pleased.

“Goth Nun! Ever do anything but church or chores?”

She capped the marker. The click was precise.

“Yes,” she said.

Paul smiled, delighted. “Really? When?”

She pointed to the clock. “Now.”

Brett cleared his throat. “Paul.”

Paul raised a hand. “I’m inspired.”

Rehearsal began. Stopped. Began again.

Paul stopped in the middle of a line and blamed the monitors. He stopped again and blamed the room. He shook his head, laughed, and ran a hand through his hair as if the answer might come to him.

Every time Celeste moved, he made a comment. Small and constant. Always there but never loud enough to be real noise.

“Careful with that cord.”

“Write it down, Goth Nun.”

“Put it on the calendar. Make it holy.”

She kept moving.

She handed out water without being asked. She moved a break by five minutes, stopping an argument before it started. When Paul’s pacing quickened, she stepped between him and the door, not blocking him but altering his path so he slowed without realizing it.

Nao leaned toward Leo at one point. “Is it just me,” he murmured, “or is she doing wizard math?”

Leo smiled without looking up. “Don’t say it out loud.”

At lunch, separate from rehearsal, Celeste ate standing.

She ate half a sandwich, folded neatly. She took careful bites so nothing dropped. One hand stayed free to answer emails between bites. The other held the paper steady.

Paul watched.

“Ascetic too,” he said. “Impressive range.”

She finished eating, threw away the paper, washed her hands, and dried them carefully.

Her phone vibrated once in her bag.

She didn’t reach for it.

Paul noticed anyway.

“Don’t stop on my account. Secret pen pal waiting?”

The word slipped in casually, like an accident.

Her shoulders tensed for a moment, and for an instant her jaw tightened, but then she let out a slow breath and relaxed. She kept looking at the sink, fingers pressing harder against the countertop.

“I’m working,” she said.

“Yeah,” he replied. “You always are.”

The afternoon dragged. Time slowed. The room felt heavier, with sound pressing against the walls.

The room felt heavier, with sound pressing against the walls. Celeste shortened the last block, ended early, and moved a call up to save everyone an extra hour of tension. Mark looked at the board, nodded, and said nothing.

As people packed up, cases closing and straps tightening, Paul lingered.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her lock the supply cabinet.

“Some hide in silence because they’ve got something to hide.”

She looked him in the eye, just long enough to be clear, her jaw set and knuckles white on the keys, but not long enough to invite more.

“I don’t,” she said.

He laughed, sharp. “Sure.”

Once rehearsal ended and outside, the air was colder than the day before, tightening around her shoulders. She walked the long way home, keeping her steps steady and counting her breaths, each inhale sharp in the cold. The pressure behind her eyes felt stronger now, like a wave threatening to crest, but she was used to sinking beneath it. She stopped on the bridge, resting her trembling hands on the rail, watching the city move below her, her heart thudding loud against the hush of evening traffic.

Later, at home, she set her bag down. Took off her coat. Sat at the table before turning on any lights.

Only then did she open her phone.

I hope yesterday was gentle.

Even when it isn’t received, offering still counts.

Some things are faithful simply because they are done.

She read it once. She didn’t reply, then set the phone face down.

In the dark, the day slowly let go, little by little.

Tomorrow was already waiting.

Held Light, Held Close – Chapter 5: The Slice That Stayed

She baked before dawn.

The kitchen was so quiet she could feel her own breath. Even the oven sounded alive, the soft metal shifting making her both comforted and achingly alone. Outside, the city slumbered on. No sirens or horns, just that distant rush—huge and indifferent, making her feel small but peaceful.

Butter softened on the counter, pale and patient. She pressed her finger into it to check, then pulled back. She added sugar, mixing it in with a wooden spoon she’d had for years. The bowl rocked gently with each stir. She cracked the eggs one at a time, tapping them and checking the shells before tossing them. She took her time and didn’t waste anything.

The batter thickened just as it should. She stopped for a moment to listen, then poured it into the pan and smoothed the top with her spoon. The oven took it in quietly.

While the cake baked, she wiped the counter with hands that needed something to do. Twice—first to tidy, then to soothe her nerves. She washed the bowl with deliberate care, letting the habit steady her. She didn’t sit down. She leaned against the counter, arms folded, eyes heavy with relief and anticipation, holding the warmth like a shield against everything waiting outside.

The cake rose evenly. A small split formed down the center, hinting at the softness inside.

She didn’t frost it.

Once it cooled, she wrapped it carefully, the paper making a soft sound under her fingers. She didn’t cut it at home, but waited until she was at the studio, letting the day decide its purpose.

The studio smelled different by midmorning.

There was coffee, but now also a faint, unexpected scent of sugar, weaving through the metal, dust, and electricity. Celeste put the box on the back table, away from cables and cords—far enough not to be kicked, but close enough to be seen. She left no note or explanation. She cut the cake into small, even slices with clean edges, and slid a plate under the first piece so it wouldn’t bend.

Nao noticed first.

He always did.

“Is it someone’s birthday?” he asked, already reaching for a plate.

“No,” she said.

He nodded, satisfied. Took a slice. Bit in.

“Oh,” he said, mouth full. “This is good.”

“She’ll stop bringing things if you’re too enthusiastic,” Leo said.

Nao grinned. “Worth the risk.”

Brett came next, moving slowly. He looked at the cake, as if hoping it would show its purpose if he watched it long enough.

“Did we survive something?” he asked.

“Yes,” Nao said. “Morning.”

Brett snorted, took a slice, then grabbed another and wrapped it in a napkin.

Peter waited until there were fewer people around. He took a plate, nodded once at Celeste, his gaze sincere but avoiding meeting her eyes too long. “Thank you,” he said quietly, already stepping away with a reserved air.

Leo hovered.

He adjusted his camera strap, glanced at the cake, then at her. “Can I?”

She slid a plate toward him. “It’s cake.”

He smiled, relieved. “Right. Good.”

Paul came last.

He always waited when it came to things he didn’t trust.

He stopped short when he saw the table. He looked at the cake, then at her, his brow furrowed as though weighing a decision. Looked back at the cake again, as if checking for movement or hidden meaning.

“Well,” he said. “Let me guess.”

She kept her hands busy, straightening napkins already neat, trying to mask the twist of anxiety tightening in her stomach.

“Communion?”

She didn’t look up. “It’s cake.”

“For what?” he asked. “Redemption? A miracle? Or is it a holy day?”

The room grew quiet without anyone meaning it to. Someone cleared their throat. Someone else pretended to tune an instrument.

She set a fork beside the plate. The metal made a small, precise sound.

“Yes,” she said.

Paul laughed, sharp and quick. “Of course it is. Goth Nun’s got a calendar.”

Nao coughed into his hand, momentarily hiding a grin. Brett shifted in his seat, his chair legs scraping softly as if to fill the silence. Peter stared intently at his phone, jaw set a little tighter than usual.

Paul picked up a slice anyway. He looked it over, turning the plate a little, as if he expected to find a symbol in the cake.

“So,” he said. “What saint is this? Patron of passive aggression?”

She met his eyes—long enough to hold his gaze, but not long enough to invite anything more.

“Mary Magdalene,” she said.

He blinked. Just once. “The prostitute?”

The word hit, sharp and ugly. The room went quiet; shoulders tensed, and eyes darted away, giving the impact a physical weight.

She didn’t flinch.

“The witness,” she said, and turned away.

Paul stared at her back for half a beat too long, his mouth tightening in thought. Then he took a bite, chewed, and let his posture soften, as if conceding something.

“Tastes expensive,” he said, voice lower. “You bake like you’re buying forgiveness.”

She walked across the room and erased a time on the board. Noon became eleven-thirty. The marker squeaked once, then stopped. She wrote the new time. The band adjusted without saying anything, moving their instruments and shifting around as if they’d planned it themselves.

“Hey,” Nao said, glancing at the board. “We’re early.”

“Yes,” Celeste said.

“Cool,” he replied. “I like early.”

The break ended. Only crumbs and clean plates were left. Leo licked his fork and looked a little guilty. Brett wrapped up the last piece and put it in his bag. Paul scraped his plate clean, making a point of it, then left it on the table instead of taking it to the sink.

Celeste wiped the table anyway. She folded the box flat, put it in her bag, and threw the napkins away.

Her phone vibrated once.

She didn’t reach for it immediately.

She waited until the amps started humming again and the room was full of sound, so she could slip out unnoticed. Then she opened the message.

I thought of her today.

The way she stays.

Not at the center. Not rewarded.

Just present.

There’s courage in that kind of fidelity.

She read the message with her back against the wall, feeling the music vibrate through her shoulders. The room sounded far away, almost like she was underwater. She closed the message and put her phone away.

Paul’s voice cut through the music.

“Hey,” he called. “You get a thank-you note from God, or what?”

She put the kettle on and poured water. Steam rose, briefly fogging her glasses before it cleared.

“It’s for everyone,” she said, nodding once toward the empty plate.

He watched her a moment longer, the line between skepticism and understanding flickering in his expression.

He started to say something, then stopped. He took a sip of tea and burned his tongue a little.

“Shit.”

Nao laughed. “Careful,” he said. “Holy beverages.”

The day moved on.

Rehearsal got more focused. The sound settled in. Arguments started and faded quickly. Celeste kept moving, handing out water, fixing cables, and calling out the time. Behind her eyes, a gentle pressure grew—familiar as regret, present as an ache she wouldn’t let surface.

By evening, the studio grew dim. She finished her last task, labeled the folders for tomorrow, and turned off the lights in the order she knew mattered. The kettle cooled. The room seemed to let out a breath.

As she left, a faint smell of sugar clung to her coat.

She carried it home, like something she hadn’t planned to give away but did anyway.

Held Light, Held Close – Chapter 1: Before City Learned Her Name

Celeste arrived before the city finished waking.

The sidewalk outside the studio was cold from last night. Water pooled in shallow spots, reflecting the sky until scattered by passing cars. Salt pressed in by weeks of boots and tires turned the seams white. She paused at the door, hand resting on it, letting the inside sounds settle in her chest before entering.

She already felt pressure behind her eyes. It had greeted her on waking—a gentle, steady reminder she ignored. Lately, she treated it the way she treated most things: not as a warning, just something that happened, like the weather.

Inside, sounds slipped through the walls. Drums repeated an unfinished phrase. A guitar stumbled, restarting. Laughter rang out sharply, then stopped, as if someone remembered to be quiet.

The hallway smelled like old coffee and warm cables. Posters covered the walls—some in frames, others just taped at the corners, curling in as if they were tired. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, flickered once, then settled into a steady glare.

She followed the signs toward management.

Mark Foster’s office was at the end of the hall, set apart more by distance than by design. The door was open. Warm light spread across the floor, a small comfort compared to the harsh lights behind her. She knocked once—quiet, but clear enough to be heard.

Mark looked up right away, eyes dull with exhaustion. Already standing, jacket half on, he left his phone facedown on the desk as if unable to face more demands. There was a heaviness in his posture, the kind that no sleep could fix.

“Celeste,” he said, offering his hand. His grip was brief, practical. No testing. No linger. “Thanks for coming in early.”

She nodded, her movements careful. When he gestured, she sat, folding her hands in her lap. Her fingers were still, but her shoulders remained tense.

His desk was buried in papers. Calendars stacked with color-coded tabs marked changing dates. A tablet buzzed, then fell silent. Coffee, left too long, congealed on top.

“We’re swamped,” Mark said. No preamble. No apology. He rubbed his temple, then pushed a schedule toward her. “Miami. Tomorrowland Winter. Coachella was on the horizon. Montreux, Fuji. Everything’s overlapping. Everyone’s stretched.”

He didn’t try to make the job sound better. He just described how heavy it was.

“We need extra hands,” he continued. “Someone steady. Discreet. Someone who doesn’t panic when things move.”

She glanced over the page. Names, dates, and arrows led nowhere good. Red lines crossed out what had once been certain.

“There’s one clause,” Mark said, watching her now. “Non-negotiable.”

She looked up.

“Sunday mornings,” he said. “You attend Mass. Before work. That time is yours. Everything else belongs to the band.”

She hesitated, the words catching somewhere between her chest and her mouth. There was a small tightening of her jaw before she finally let the silence speak for her.

“That’s fine,” she said.

Her answer was steady, almost too calm. Mark let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders sinking as if he’d put down something heavy. He opened a desk drawer and, with a faint, grateful nod, slid a badge across to her.

“Let me introduce you.”

The rehearsal room felt like a breath finally let out.

Sound filled the room as she entered. The band spread out, at ease with each other. Nao sat on an amp, tapping his knees, laughter always close. Leo leaned against the wall, camera on his wrist, watching the light move. Brett tuned his instrument precisely, head down. Peter sat with his bass, listening and watching more than playing.

And Paul.

He stood in the center of the room, holding the mic cord tightly in his hand. His sandy hair was pushed back, and his sharp blue eyes looked at her openly. He watched her the way people do when they are used to being watched themselves.

“This is Celeste,” Mark said. “She’s joining us. Assistant.”

Nao smiled immediately, wide and warm. “Hey. Welcome.”

Nao smiled at her instantly, warmth reaching his eyes. Leo offered a nod, sincere but reserved. Brett looked her up and down, suspicion flickering before his features relaxed in quiet approval. Peter nodded politely, eyes steady, keeping his distance.

Paul laughed.

His laugh was quiet. It didn’t have to be loud.

“Is that the uniform?” he asked, eyes flicking over her black dress, the lace at her sleeves, the veil folded neatly in her bag. “Are we doing funerals now?”

Celeste didn’t answer.

Mark stepped in, already moving. “Paul—”

“It’s fine,” Paul said, cutting him off with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m just trying to place her. You look like a… what do you call it?”

He tilted his head and thought for a moment. “A Goth Nun.”

His words fell quietly in the room.

Nao’s grin slipped ever so slightly. Brett’s hand stilled on the tuning peg, knuckles whitening. Leo’s eyes dropped to the floor, his shoulders tensing. Peter just sat, gaze darkening.

Celeste met Paul’s look with a practiced calm. She blinked once, unfazed, face unreadable. Setting her bag down purposefully, her hands steady, she gave no reaction—the kind of silence that holds something back.

“If you need anything,” Mark said, louder now, redirecting the room, “Celeste will handle it. Schedules. Logistics. She’ll be your point.”

Paul’s grin sharpened. “Lucky us.”

Mark clapped his hands once. “All right. Back to it.”

Celeste moved to the side. She watched, not hovering. She saw Nao lift the mood, Brett stand quietly between Paul and the door, Leo watch Paul more than his instrument, and Peter keep the music steady without drawing attention.

Paul tried her again, tossing a comment over his shoulder, sharp but casual.

“Careful,” he said. “She might pray us into better time signatures.”

She said nothing.

The morning passed in fragments. Sounds layered. Arguments began and ended quickly. She found where to stand, who needed space, and who needed support. She made tea, set mugs within reach, and updated the whiteboard. The room changed around her without notice.

Paul noticed.

He stayed quiet, watching her longer than he intended.

Outside, the city finally woke. Horns sounded. Footsteps multiplied. Somewhere, a siren rose and fell.

Inside, Celeste began creating something that no one had yet named.