The rhythm grows louder, pulling Collins back to the hidden room but with every sound, so does the risk of discovery.
Morning light felt sharper that day, as if the sun itself was awake to secrets no one else could see. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my palms still sore from the sticks I had held the night before, my heartbeat drumming against my ribs like it had never stopped. The silence of the house pressed in on me, but to me it was no longer silence. It was a canvas, waiting for rhythm, waiting for something to awaken it.
From the courtyard below came the scratch of Mother's broom against the stone, quick and impatient. Father cleared his throat over his tea, his voice gruff and steady, a reminder of order. My younger brother's bare feet slapped the floor as he ran to fetch water, laughter spilling behind him. To anyone else, these were ordinary, mundane sounds. To me, they were potential beats, fragments of a melody waiting to be pulled together.
I had discovered something last night. Something that made my chest burn with both exhilaration and terror. The memory of the girl's voice, fierce and trembling, haunted me. The sound of the desk as a drum, the guitar straining toward melody, the claps and tin cans colliding in perfect, chaotic sync. It was alive, and I had been part of it.
"Get up," Father's voice called, cutting through my thoughts. He stood at the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze heavy with expectation, almost as if he could see the rebellion stirring in my bones. "School will not wait for you. Do not waste your future on foolishness."
He did not know. He could not know. And that was what terrified me most. The weight of his words pressed on my neck, but I obeyed, as I always did. Inside, something had already shifted. I was no longer just Collins, the obedient son. I was Collins, who had touched the Beat and could not forget it.
Breakfast was quiet, filled only with the clink of spoons against enamel bowls. Father glanced at me once, twice, as if searching for signs of my inner revolt. Mother's eyes lingered for a fraction longer than usual, perhaps sensing the tremor of something forbidden. I kept my head low, the words of my parents echoing faintly in my mind, but my thoughts were far away, still in that smoky, hidden room where the Beat had come alive.
School felt heavier than ever. The hallways were suffocating, the air stagnant and warm. Teachers spoke in tones that dragged like chains across our heads. Chalk screeched against blackboards without passion, without life. Every step, every word, felt mechanical, meaningless. Around me, my classmates slouched in dull routine, already stripped of curiosity and spark.
But in my mind, the rhythm refused to let me rest.
Tap, tap tap.
Clash. Tap.
The girl's voice haunted me, soaring and faltering with emotion. The scratch of chalk became guitar strings. The shuffle of paper turned to clattering tin cans. My pencil trembled as though it wanted to join in, to make sound, to create, even though my body sat still at a desk.
The teacher's ruler hit my desk. "Collins! Are you with us, or somewhere else entirely?"
I swallowed and nodded, forcing my body to obey, but my mind was not here. I was somewhere else. Somewhere he could not follow. Somewhere the Beat called to me, stronger and louder than any authority in the world.
By the time the final bell rang, my lungs felt tight. Friends chattered about homework and chores, about meals waiting at home, but I could not focus. The pull in my chest grew stronger with each step toward the fork in the road. I walked with them for a moment, then turned abruptly down the path I knew, toward the alley, toward the door that had changed my life.
The alley was darker than I remembered. Shadows leaned from broken shutters, the air damp and smelling of old stone. The door was closed, as though it had been abandoned, yet my steps drew closer, compelled. Fear and excitement wrestled inside me. What if they did not let me back in? What if it had been a one-time miracle?
I knocked once, soft, unsure. Silence. Then the faint shuffle of footsteps. The door creaked open, revealing the boy with the guitar. His eyes flicked over me, suspicion visible for a moment, then softened into the smallest of smirks.
"You came back," he said.
"I could not stay away," I whispered.
Inside, the room pulsed with energy. More children had gathered than before, faces unfamiliar but eyes alight with the same hunger I carried. The desk was already pounding, fists striking with rough but steady rhythm. Tin cans rattled sharp metallic beats, confident as if even their dents and scars had meaning. The guitar strained toward melody, resisting control, demanding freedom.
And then there was her voice.
The girl stood taller than before, shoulders squared. Her voice no longer trembled; it roared with fire. Words came jagged, raw, dangerous. Every note cut through the air, daring anyone to silence it.
It was not practice. It was creation. I felt it in my chest, under my skin, vibrating through me. The Beat was growing. Stronger. Hungrier. Untamed.
I picked up the sticks again. My hands did not shake this time. The rhythm stumbled, but the others carried me along. Sounds intertwined, weaving around mine until I belonged. The air shook with laughter, shouting, rebellion. For the first time in my life, I was not an outsider. I was exactly where I belonged.
Between songs, conversation blossomed. Not about school or chores, but about us, about this living, breathing sound we had made.
"We need a name," someone said.
"No," another argued. "The sound speaks for itself."
The girl shook her head, sweat glinting across her brow. "It is more than sound. It is who we are. It is the Beat."
Silence followed, sharp and alive, like lightning splitting the night. We nodded, each of us understanding.
Then came the pounding.
"Quiet!" a voice roared from the other side of the wall. "Do you want trouble? Stop this madness before you bring them down on us!"
The room froze. Every eye darted toward the door, toward the fragile walls. Fear prickled at my skin. We all knew who "them" meant: elders, teachers, authorities who despised noise, fire, anything refusing obedience.
For a heartbeat, I thought it was over. We would scatter, return to silence, disappear into our lives again. But then the girl lifted her chin, eyes burning brighter than ever, unwavering.
"Let them hear," she said. Her voice rang clear, fearless. "Let the whole world hear. We are not stopping."
Defiance spread through us. Heads lifted. Spines straightened. Hands gripped instruments with renewed determination. And then the rhythm began again, louder, fiercer, untamed. It was no longer mere sound. It was a challenge. A declaration.
I struck the sticks with everything I had. My fear mixed with exhilaration, each beat daring the world to notice. Around me, the room shook with creation. The Beat was ours now, and there was no turning back.
Outside, footsteps shuffled. The pounding on the walls grew heavier. Shadows lurked in the alley, voices murmuring of rules and punishment. Danger was real, and it would not wait.
Yet inside, we laughed. We shouted. We created. We belonged.
The Beat had begun to spread, and the world would either listen or crush it.