October 5–13, 2020 | Molina House, Garage Evenings
Leo's POV
The morning after the rally has its own kind of hush; not heavy, just thoughtful. The light through the kitchen window is soft and angled, catching on the steam rising from my mug of English Breakfast tea. Julie's already at the table when I come in, notebook open, one AirPod in. It's her lyric book, I recognize the soft, worn cover and the way her pencil taps against the edge when she's thinking.
She doesn't look up at first. Just keeps writing. Her shoulders are a little tense, like she's trying to pin something down before it slips away. But then her eyes flick up, just long enough to give me a small nod.
She used to do this all the time. Before.
Before the silence, before the weight, before everything started to echo differently in this house.
The day before, when I came home from the center, Flynn was just leaving the garage; red checkered sweater fuzzed up around her shoulders, platform shoes clunking against the floor, and her overalls slightly askew like she'd been jumping up and down. Her cheeks were pink like she'd been crying and laughing at the same time. She didn't say much, just grinned widely and said, "We're good. Band's back on." Then she marched off before I could ask any questions.
That night, the house was mostly quiet. Ray was editing something in the living room. I reheated the last of the pastel de arroz con pollo, my mom brought over; the kind with the crisp corners and the warm spice that always makes me think of home. Then I went up to Julie's room to say goodnight. She had her laptop open, the screen angled away from me, and AirPods in. I figured she was FaceTiming someone — probably the band — so I just gave a small wave and told her I was heading out to the garage.
I passed Carlos's room, signed a goodnight, and got a thumbs-up in return. Ray looked up as I pulled on my sweater. "Night, Leo," he said softly. I nodded, smiled, and stepped into the cool evening.
Now, seated across from Julie with a mug of English Breakfast tea warming my hands, I watched in silence. I didn't have my implant in — the world was comfortably muffled — but her presence still hummed with something alive.
Every so often, she'd smile faintly or glance to the side like someone invisible had just said something funny. Her lips moved now and then, not clearly enough to read, but just enough to tell she was muttering replies.
It almost looked like someone was helping her write.
A few minutes later, Ray came down the stairs, already dressed and clutching a heavy thermos. "Got called in for a shoot," he said, half-yawning. "Shouldn't be more than a few hours. Can you two keep an eye on Carlos? He's still out cold."
Julie gave a thumbs-up without looking up. I sign "yes", and Ray nodded his thanks, ruffling my hair on the way out the door.
Once the screen door clicked shut, I glanced back across the table. Julie was still scribbling, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.
I knock softly on the table to get her attention, and when she glances up, I sign the question: "What are the names of the boys in your new band?"
Her pencil pauses mid-word. She blinks like I pulled her out of a deeper train of thought than she meant to be in.
"Luke, Alex, and Reggie," she says with a small smile. "Luke plays guitar and writes most of the songs — he actually wrote 'Bright.' He's kind of the... music engine. Alex is the drummer — super precise. He taps out rhythms on every surface. And Reggie's on bass. He's got this energy... like he's always trying to make someone laugh, even when no one's watching."
She hesitates a moment, then adds, "They've all been helping me practice. A lot."
Her fingers trace the edge of her page before picking up the pencil again.
I nod slowly, letting the names sink in. It's been a while since she's mentioned anyone like this.
I don't ask how they met, not yet. I don't want to push. A part of me has already made a theory: some kind of online grief forum, or a community board for young musicians. People find each other in strange ways when the world feels too quiet to carry alone.
She bends back over her notebook, and I watch her lips move, quietly, like she's still half in conversation with someone I can't see.
Whatever the story is, it clearly matters.
The days settle into something soft and strange.
Julie's in the garage more now, not always at the piano, but always near it. She keeps her laptop open, AirPods snug in her ears. Sometimes she mumbles a line or laughs under her breath, and I assume she's on a call with the band. The sound must be pretty loud; the few times I've had my implant in, I've picked up faint snippets of them talking. Not enough to follow, but enough to recognize the voices that I heard at the rally performance.
Whenever they rehearse — which is most nights — she gives me a soft smile and says something like, "Hey, would you mind giving us the space for a bit?" I nod. Head to the house. No problem. I don't know what the rules are, but I figure she has her reasons. She always has.
Saturday afternoon, the house is filled with the smell of popcorn and the hum of the TV. Carlos has invited two of his friends over for a full Star Wars movie marathon; release order, he proudly tells me, because "that's how the filmmakers wanted it."
They're doing it as prep for The Mandalorian premiere next month, and Carlos has planned everything — snacks, pillows, even trivia cards. I join them on the couch for part of A New Hope, then stretch out on the floor with my sketchbook.
They talk through half the scenes, debating lightsaber styles and quoting characters before the lines drop. It's chaos. It's perfect.
At one point, Carlos leans over and sign, "You think Julie would let me borrow her black hoodie so I can be Baby Yoda for Halloween?"
I snort. "Pretty sure Baby Yoda doesn't wear hoodies."
He shrugs. "Still. It'd be iconic."
After a while, I slip away, giving them their space. I can still hear the music and the lightsaber swishes. The whole house feels like it's buzzing — with laughter, with warmth, with something light.
It's nice.
Monday, October 14 | Victoria's Apartment & the Community Center
Mom honks once from the driveway, right on time. I'm standing in my high‑waisted plaid trousers and that tapestry‑print sweater vest over a crisp white shirt—my favorite "library‑card" outfit. I sling my bag over my shoulder, tuck my sketchbooks under one arm, and carry my portfolio binder to the car. She already has the passenger door open and a coffee waiting in the cupholder. Samba music plays low from the speakers—something instrumental, she says, always slows her heart down after teaching all morning.
She smiles as I settle in and, without a word, signs "You look amazing."
I return her grin, then say aloud, "Gracias."
We drive in a quiet rhythm. She tells me the community center staff were really excited about the idea. I nod along. The coffee warms my hands. The early sun paints long lines across the dashboard.
She drops me off just as kids start arriving. "You good?" she asks. "Yeah," I sign, then say aloud, "Thanks for the ride mamí." I walk in to stand just inside the doors, sketchbook clutched to my chest. Tiny sneakers slap the concrete walkway. Parents trail behind, signing them in at the welcome table. The workshop is real now.
I clap twice to get their attention. "Hi, I'm Leo Araya," I say, signing alongside my words. "I'll be leading this week's workshop. We're calling it 'music-inspired art.' That means we draw what we feel, not what we think it should look like."
A few kids stare. One giggles. A mom gives me a thumbs-up.
"Today and tomorrow we'll meet for two hours, starting at 3:30 in the afternoon," I continue, glancing at my notes, "and on Saturday and Sunday we'll have longer sessions. Those are optional — but there'll be snacks. And music you can dance to."
Smiles ripple across the room.
"You don't need to hear the music," I add. "You just have to feel it."
A dad signs "thank you" with both hands. A kid near him signs "cool." I smile and sign it back.
Before we even touch the markers, I ask everyone to introduce themselves. "Just your name, your favorite color, and something you like doing. Or," I say more gently, "just who you came here with. That's okay too."
"Zoe. Purple. I like painting cats."
"Jayden. I came with my uncle."
"Ari. Red. Soccer and space."
Some just say their name. A few sign with their hands curled in their lap. One boy whispers into his sister's shoulder and lets her speak for him. It's all welcome.
We settle onto the floor. I hand out pastels, crayons, watercolor paper — everything we could gather from the supply closet. Markers and paper scatter like candy. I turn on the stereo — the rhythm-heavy playlist I'd put together, with the bass most present in the beat, pulsing steady through the room. I tell them to draw what the music feels like, not to overthink it.
One boy lies on his stomach, tapping his hand to an invisible beat. Another paints in wide, spinning circles. A girl closes her eyes and draws what she sees behind them.
I circle the room slowly, pausing to crouch beside them when asked. Some kids talk a lot. Others not at all. One girl draws entirely in green. A quiet boy with messy curls draws a tangle of dark lines and says it feels like thunder. I tell him it looks powerful.
After cleanup, Willow's dad taps my shoulder. "She could use your help, he signs. First time showing. It's a lot."
Willow stands a few steps behind him, arms crossed but eyes hopeful. I nod.
We walk to the storage room in silence. Her pieces are stacked gently against the wall. She watches me while I unroll one and lift it toward the light.
I point to one with gold stitching and navy paper. "Storm, but safe," I sign.
She smiles.
The next few days pass like breath. When I'm not at school or sketching for Quiet Things That Echo, I'm at the center — helping Willow arrange lighting, measure hanging height, test the order of her pieces.
One night, we stay late. The hallway is quiet, the soft click of measuring tape and her brush touching up corners the only sound. I don't need to say much. She doesn't either. She signs approval when I shift something an inch left. I give a thumbs-up when she finishes a frame.
The exhibit goes up Sunday morning. I get there early to check the spacing one last time. The kids see it during the next workshop session. Some point, recognizing her style. One of the youngest asks if she can make art like that one day. Willow watches from the corner with her hands in her pockets, quiet but glowing.
The center buzzes with motion — footsteps, chatter, fluorescent hum — but our sunlit corner stays calm.
It feels like belonging.
October 17–20 | Community Center Workshop
Every afternoon after school, I head to the center. The same kids from Monday return with even more energy, dragging cousins and friends in tow. Some parents stay near the wall, watching quietly as the room fills with motion and color.
During Thursday's break, I sneak out into the hallway and text Dylan:
Me: The kids are wild. All rhythm and neon and movement. You'd love it.
I toss my phone back in my pocket, not expecting much. He's busy, always bouncing between playlists and parties.
But the next day, just before the session starts, he walks through the door like he owns the room. Oversized hoodie, headphones around his neck, portable speaker tucked under one arm.
"You said they like bass, right?" he grins.
He sets up in the corner without asking for permission. I don't stop him. I just smile and turn off the stereo.
By Saturday, he's fully in DJ mode; spinning live beats that crash like ocean waves and ripple through the floorboards. The bass is everywhere. The younger kids lie on the floor just to feel it better, laughing and swaying before diving back into their art.
Some don't use brushes at all. Just fingers, palms, elbows. One girl spins as she draws, letting the movement pull lines across her page. Another hums softly to herself while layering neon pastels. I don't stop them.
There's a moment — somewhere between handing out fresh pastels and helping a kid clean marker off their elbow — when the music changes. Just slightly. The beat deepens, smooths out, gets fuller in a way I didn't expect. Dylan doesn't react, just keeps nodding to the rhythm like nothing's different. A few kids perk up, swaying a little harder, drawing faster.
I glance at the speaker, wondering if he swapped tracks when I wasn't looking, but it's the same playlist, still running from his phone. He doesn't notice me looking. He's vibing.
There's also a weird little buzz in my implant; like distant static, almost like a voice, but too faint to catch. I adjust the setting slightly, and it fades.
Probably nothing.
The kids are completely into it now, lines flying, pages turning. Whatever's coming through the speaker, they're feeling it.
And that's what matters.
Sunday morning, when all the kids are there for the final session, I gather them by the doors before we unpack the supplies.
"Before we get started," I sign and say out loud for those that aren't so practiced in ASL yet, "I want to show you something special."
They follow me down the hallway in a loose line — sneakers squeaking, fingers brushing the walls. We stop just outside the art room, where Willow's display lines the corridor in a quiet arc of color and texture.
"This, was made by a very talented artist who's part of this center — someone who feels the world in a different way and turns that feeling into something you can see."
The kids go still, heads tilting, stepping closer.
"That one looks like lightning," one of them signs.
Another point and mouths, "Fire."
Willow stands off to the side, half-shadowed, watching them with her hands tucked in her sleeves. I see the moment she exhales. Just a little.
I see her smile, small, but real.
One of the younger kids signs to me between songs: "It feels like dancing with my eyes."
And honestly? It does.
I get home pretty late after saying goodbye to every last kid and promising — with both voice and hands — that if there's ever another workshop, I'll be the first to volunteer.
I curl up on her worn couch, sketchbook in my lap, pencil moving slowly. I work on my senior portfolio: Quiet Things That Echo. One of those pieces is forming now — built from rhythm and chalk dust and the way joy spreads, quiet and unstoppable.
October 20–27 | Molina House, Garage Evenings
Mom drops me off on Monday evening. The sun's already low, the kind that turns the sky a little golden at the edges. I still have my implant in, so I hear Carlos as he barrels down the hallway before I've even stepped inside.
"Leo, you're back!" he shouts, sock-skidding around the corner.
Carlos nearly knocks the wind out of me when I step inside, arms flung around my waist in a full-speed hug.
"You better not have missed me too much," I tease, ruffling his hair.
"Only a little," he says with a grin.
Ray gives me a tired smile from the hallway before he also comes over and pulls me into a quiet hug, warm and steady. "Good week?" he asks.
"Yeah," I sign, and he nods like he already knew it would be.
"Julie's out in the garage," he says, lifting his thermos. "You've got time to drop your bag before she claims the whole space again."
"Night," I sign to them both, then head toward the back door with my things in hand.
As I slide open the garage door, I hear what sounds like Reggie's voice:
"He's back!" — too loud and full of excitement. "I really hope they do another one of those art workshops. The kids were so into it. Maybe the band could even play next time."
"Yeah," Alex mutters. "And now we have to share the space again."
I blink. The room goes still.
Julie doesn't turn around right away. She ignores the boys completely, fingers still moving over the keys. But after a few quiet notes, she gets up and crosses the room.
"Hey," she says softly, meeting my eyes. "Welcome back."
I nod, still half-dazed from the day.
"I'll keep the lights low so you can sleep," she adds. "I'm heading in soon. Just need to finish this bit."
She pats the edge of the pull-out couch on her way back to her keyboard. The lamp glows warmly in the corner.
That's all I need.
I sigh, too tired to question anything. The strange tension, the odd comments. I take out my implant, place it gently in its case, and fold down into the blankets.
Whatever's happening here, it can wait. Right now, I just need sleep.
The week drifts.
Julie writes more now. Not just more often, more deeply? Some nights she hums under her breath, swaying just a little on the piano bench. Other nights she stares at the ceiling, unmoving, eyes wet but not crying.
I just place a warm mug beside her elbow and settle into my corner with a pencil.
She doesn't always notice. Sometimes she does, and nods without looking.
We don't talk much during these nights. We don't need to. Julie composes, I paint. The garage fills with the soft rustle of paper, the occasional note escaping the piano. We exist in tandem, two different melodies sharing the same rhythm, separate and intertwined all at once.
I don't tell her that sometimes, when I'm painting, I feel what sounds like Reggie humming near me, like a warm thread of sound that curls around my shoulders, curious but careful. It doesn't happen often, and it never lingers long, but when it does, it's like the air itself shifts. Something invisible brushes past me, light and tentative, and I can almost feel the music settle on my skin.
At first, I thought it was the garage creaking or Julie's keyboard buzzing faintly through the floor. But it's always the same low warmth, like a hum only I can hear. Sometimes it hovers while I'm choosing colors. Sometimes it arrives just as I finish a piece, like a quiet exhale behind me.
And every now and then, when I have my implant in, I think I hear something more... a murmur, maybe a voice. Once, while I was sketching near the garage window, I could've sworn someone said, "That one's kind of sad... but it's good sad."
Another time, a low voice mumbled, "Whoa. That shadow work's tight," before going quiet again. Always soft. Almost like someone trying not to interrupt.
It's never enough to be sure of. Just enough to make me pause, glance over my shoulder, and then go back to the page.
So I've started sketching it. Not directly, it's not something I could pin down in lines or features, but in curves and swirls, bursts of motion caught mid-thought. I've been calling the series Soundlight; a blend of movement, shape, and that quiet, buzzing energy I get whenever Julie plays. It's part music, part feeling, part something I don't fully understand but need to follow.
Some nights, the hum comes and goes. Other times, it lingers long after Julie has gone inside, like the echo of a presence that never quite leaves.
Sunday, October 27
She comes in holding a school-labeled CD case. The portable player clicks when she slides it in.
She doesn't say a word. Just hits play.
I don't have my implant in.
But I feel it.