Reis stirred awake to the muted glow of daylight seeping through the curtains, his head heavy with the dull ache of too much drink. Not that it had been much—two shots, no more—but for him, that was enough to leave his temples pulsing in protest. He let out a quiet groan, dragging a hand across his face before sitting up, the sheets creasing around him.
He rose slowly, his body moving out of habit more than energy. The bathroom mirror reflected tired eyes and a faint shadow of stubble. A rinse of cold water jolted him halfway back to life, followed by the sharp bite of mint on his tongue. Routine steadied him; the small acts of care were armor against mornings like this.
In the kitchen, the coffee maker sputtered to life, filling the air with a low bubbling sound and the rich aroma of dark roast.
Carrying his mug, he leaned against the counter and let his eyes drift across the space. His apartment, though spacious, bore the clutter of neglect—stacks of books on the table, a thin layer of dust along the shelves, dishes left too long in the sink. It wasn't squalor, but it wasn't order either.
He exhaled, sipping his coffee. The quiet pressed in, highlighting what he'd avoided all week: this place needed to be cleaned, put back in shape. Maybe then the gnawing weight in his chest would ease. For now, though, he let the warmth of breakfast soften the edges of his headache.
Reis balanced his mug on the edge of the table as he crossed to the record player, the old machine waiting in its corner like a relic he could never part with. He lifted the lid, set a vinyl in place, and lowered the needle with care. A crackle, then music—Emilia's music—rose to life, weaving through the quiet house.
The melody spread through the air like sunlight, warm and familiar. Reis leaned back, letting the sound wash over him, his breath easing for the first time that morning. Every note was hers: the subtle lift in tempo, the softness in the pauses, the kind of details only he could recognize. It was as if she were in the room again, fingers coaxing the keys, smiling at him from across the space.
When the song ended, he braced for silence—but another began. And then another. Seamless, natural, as though Emilia herself had orchestrated the order. His chest tightened, but not with pain. This was proof, wasn't it? She was still here, lingering in the music, staying with him in the only way she could.
His eyes wandered to the shelf of photographs. Emilia's smile, bright and unshaken. Emilia is kneeling beside Mochi, their golden retriever's tongue lolling happily. He brushed dust from the frame, lips curving in a faint smile. The music continued, one piece after another, and he let himself believe—fully, desperately—that she had never left.
Reis froze, halfway through reaching for another photo frame. His ears caught the melody drifting from the record player, and his chest tightened. That song. It was the very same piece—the one he had heard mangled just nights ago at the bar. Played poorly, off-tempo, half-slurred with nerves or carelessness, but unmistakable all the same.
He closed his eyes, letting Emilia's version wash over him, pure and steady. How cruel, he thought, that such a sacred song of hers had been reduced to something so clumsy. And yet, it lingered in his memory because of the woman who had played it.
The image surfaced unbidden, refusing to let him rest. Long brown hair catching the dim light, a flicker of familiarity where there should have been none. At first glance, he had thought of Emilia—his Emilia—yet the illusion shattered the longer he held onto it. Emilia had carried herself with quiet elegance, her every gesture deliberate, her words carefully measured, as though she weighed them with care before offering them to the world. Her presence had been like a current, steady and unseen, wearing smooth the jagged edges of his days, wrapping him in a steadiness he had taken for granted until it was gone.
The woman in the bar, though—she was nothing of the kind. She moved with a restless energy, erratic and unpredictable, her body language loud even when she was silent. There had been defiance in her eyes, almost a dare in the way she held herself, a sharpness that clashed violently against every tender memory Emilia had left behind. Her rough movements, her unpolished confidence, radiated something raw and untamed.
It unsettled him. Not because she resembled Emilia, but because she didn't. She was everything Emilia wasn't, yet something about her presence had managed to tear open an old wound all the same.
And still, he couldn't shake the echo of that moment. That woman—and the way her roughness had wrapped itself around the very song Emilia once poured her heart into. It unsettled him. It intrigued him. It drew him closer in ways he wasn't ready to admit.
The song clung to him long after the record ended, trailing him through the house like a ghost. No matter what he did—washing the dishes, stacking the frames back on the shelf, even scrubbing down the counter—he couldn't shake it. That woman's uneven notes tangled with Emilia's perfect ones, replaying in his head until it wore him hollow. By late afternoon, his nerves were tight, his chest restless.
He tossed a towel aside and reached for his gym bag, deciding he needed to move, to bleed out the tension. That's when his phone buzzed on the counter.
"Reis," Ren's voice snapped through the phone, sharp with irritation. "Where the hell are you? You're late."
He winced, dragging a hand through his hair as if that might untangle his excuse. "On my way. Just got… distracted."
"You'd better not bail again. Wraps are on, ring's free. You've got ten minutes."
The line went dead before he could answer, leaving only the faint echo of his sister's impatience buzzing in his ear. Reis exhaled hard, the kind of sigh that felt like it carried more weight than it should. He slung his bag over his shoulder, movements sluggish, then finally stepped out into the daylight, the stubborn melody still gnawing at the back of his mind.
Reis finally arrived at the gym, pulling his gloves tight as Ren smirked from across the mat. "About time, Bun. Thought you were gonna ghost me," she teased, bouncing lightly on her toes with that easy confidence that always made her look untouchable.
Reis managed a faint smirk, though the weariness in his eyes betrayed him. "Wouldn't dare," he said, stepping onto the mat.
Ren tilted her head, circling him slowly like a cat sizing up its prey. "Good. I'd hunt you down anyway."
They brushed gloves, and the spar began. At first, it was light—measured jabs, a kick here, a dodge there—but soon Reis's strikes grew sharper, heavier. His movements lost the easy rhythm they usually carried, replaced with something clipped, forceful. Ren blocked one hit, stumbled back a step, then straightened with a raised brow.
"Easy, Bun—this is sparring, not war."
He muttered, "Sorry."
"You're wound tight today." Her tone softened. "What's eating you?"
Reis hesitated, guard still up. "Just… off balance. Can't shake it."
Ren's eyes lingered, curious.
Ren circled him with her usual effortless ease, gloves tapping lightly against her palms. She tilted her head, studying his silence. "You're not gonna tell me what's rattling around in that head, huh?" she teased, her tone light but her eyes sharp.
Reis only breathed out, steadying himself, unwilling to give her more. His silence lingered, heavy enough to answer on its own.
Ren sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes as she adjusted her gloves. "Fine, Bun. Keep your walls up. Dodge the question. So then—how's the book coming along?"
That, at least, cracked something in him. Reis exhaled through his nose, lowering his gloves. "I've got another meeting tomorrow with the illustrator."
Ren arched a brow. "That underground newbie you picked up?"
"Yes," he said simply, gaze drifting past her for a moment. His voice softened, the sharpness from earlier melting away. "This book—it's for Emilia. Every line, every page… it needs to be right. Not just good. Perfect. The art has to carry her memory as much as the words."
For a heartbeat, the air between them grew heavy, the rhythm of the gym fading behind the weight of her name.
Ren stepped closer and rested a gloved hand against his shoulder. "Then it will be. You'll make sure of it."
Reis nodded once, jaw tightening. He wanted to believe that—needed to. Yet doubt coiled inside him, gnawing at the edges of his resolve. What if the words weren't enough? What if the art failed to capture her essence? Doubt stirred, but he denied it space. The words would stand; the art would bear her truth. Emilia deserved nothing less.