Chapter 4
Dinner at the McLovin household was usually a quiet affair. The clatter of utensils on porcelain, the occasional murmur of appreciation for the food, and the soft hum of the kitchen fan spinning overhead—these were the sounds that made up most evenings.
But tonight felt different.
The air buzzed with something Michael couldn't quite place. Maybe it was the leftover trace of that mysterious tune from earlier, or maybe it was the realization that he couldn't waste any more time. Whatever it was, it made his father glance at him with curiosity over a spoonful of soup.
"So, Michael," his dad began, lowering his spoon gently into the bowl. "You've been quiet today."
Michael blinked, mid-bite. "Huh?"
"You heard your father," his mom added with a slight smile. "We were just wondering… have you given any thought to your future? What you might want to do someday?"
He froze for just a second. It was too soon. They were talking about college and jobs, he was barely halfway through his first year in high school. Of course, they didn't know that deep inside, he'd already laid down a personal path. They didn't know what stirred in his soul.
Michael smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "I'm only fifteen, Mom. I haven't thought that far yet."
His dad chuckled. "Fair enough. You don't have to have it all figured out. But it's never too early to think, even just a little."
Michael nodded slowly, keeping his tone relaxed. "Yeah… I guess I'll figure it out."
But in his mind, a plan was already unfolding.
---
They continued eating in silence for a few more moments. The stew was rich and filled the space with warmth, but the subject hadn't quite left the table.
His mom broke the silence next. "How's school? Any subjects you're enjoying more than others?"
This one was easier. He leaned back slightly and said, "I like music."
"Oh?" His father looked intrigued, setting down his glass of water. "Music, huh? What about it do you like?"
Michael thought for a second, measuring his words. "I don't know… it's just—calming. I like how it makes me feel. And I think I'm good at it. The teacher says I have a good ear for rhythm."
His mom lit up. "That's wonderful! Your music teacher must be thrilled."
"He's alright," Michael replied. "He said I should consider joining the school's music club, maybe even look into learning an instrument properly."
His dad raised an eyebrow. "You interested in that?"
Michael nodded, avoiding their eyes. "Maybe. I think it might be something I could be good at."
But in truth, it was much more than that.
He saw music as a bridge—between this life and the one before it. Between what he had lost and what he could still gain. It wasn't just a hobby. It was his anchor.
"Well," his dad said, relaxing into his seat, "if it's something you really enjoy, we'll support you. That's what matters. Not the money, not the prestige—doing something you're passionate about."
"Exactly," his mom chimed in. "Don't let people push you into things just because they sound 'safe.' If music makes you happy, follow that."
Michael smiled genuinely this time. "Thanks, guys."
---
Dinner ended the way most dinners did—with empty plates and full stomachs. But as his parents began tidying up, Michael stood from his chair.
"I'll wash the dishes tonight," he offered quickly.
His mom paused, a dish in one hand. "Really?"
"Yeah," he said, forcing a grin. "You and Dad look tired. You two should, y'know… rest. Spend time together or something."
She narrowed her eyes at him playfully. "What's gotten into you, huh?"
Michael chuckled. "Nothing. I just feel like helping."
She leaned over, kissed the top of his head, and whispered, "Just don't break the plates like last time, okay? Goodnight, sweetie."
He laughed. "No promises!"
---
When the clink of the last plate echoed through the kitchen and the soapy water swirled down the drain, Michael dried his hands on a nearby towel and made his way upstairs.
His room was on the second floor, tucked in the corner, facing the street. It was simple—just a bed, a desk, a wardrobe with some band stickers peeling off the side, and an old computer humming softly on the table.
He dropped into his chair, booted up the browser, and typed in the search bar:
> "Second-hand acoustic guitar near me."
Several listings popped up instantly—some affordable, some clearly overused, some suspiciously cheap. He scrolled through them, eyes darting across the specs, looking for something that just felt right.
In his past life—he couldn't remember if he had ever actually held a guitar, but he remembered listening. He remembered watching fingers dance across strings in videos. He remembered how he envied those who could turn silence into music.
He clicked one listing:
"Yamaha Acoustic – minor scratches – ₱2,300 – gently used".
Michael leaned closer.
It was located in the next town. Maybe a 40-minute bus ride. But it looked solid.
He bookmarked it.
Then he opened a notepad and typed a single word:
Plan.
Underneath it, he began to write:
1. Buy guitar (cheap but working)
2. Study basics (WAtchONline "waon" tutorials first)
3. Get noticed in music class
4. Ask music teacher for mentoring
5. Join school performance
6. Post song online under alias
He stared at the list. It felt ambitious, but not impossible.
A soft wind blew through his open window. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. The normality of this world sometimes made him feel so far away from who he used to be. But this time, he wasn't going to waste the second chance.
He stood up, stretched, then glanced at the full-length mirror stuck to his wardrobe. His reflection stared back at him—messy black hair, a slightly too-big plain white shirt, tired eyes with something burning behind them.
He was just a kid.
But he wasn't just anything anymore.
He would play. He would write. He would sing.
And someday, this world would hear him.
But for now, the first step was pressing "Add to Cart."