Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds of Vale Studio, slicing across tangled cables, scribbled lyric sheets, and the half-empty mugs scattered across the floor.
For the first time in days, there was silence.
No reporters.
No phone calls.
Just quiet — the kind that felt almost sacred.
Lian sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the acoustic guitar in his hands. The strings were slightly out of tune, but he didn't fix them. He just plucked each note slowly, like he was trying to find where the sound had gone after the storm.
Rian walked in, carrying two cups of coffee. "You look like someone who just survived a war."
"Didn't we?" Lian muttered, still strumming.
Rian grinned faintly, sitting beside him. "Then this is the ceasefire."
Lian looked up, eyes tired but bright. "Feels too quiet."
"That's how you know it's peace," Rian said softly. Then, after a pause, "Or maybe just the calm before the next mess."
