Luca Moreno stepped into the morning light like a man walking into a world he no longer belonged to.
The city hummed — cars, voices, footsteps, distant music — all of it reduced to muted vibrations against the edges of his awareness. He didn't hear anything, but he could feel the rhythm of life pulsing through the concrete beneath his boots. A reminder of everything he had lost.
He pulled his coat tighter as he walked, head low, hands buried deep in the pockets. Even after two years, leaving his apartment still felt like exposing himself to a world he couldn't fully navigate. Every sudden movement made him flinch; every face he passed reminded him of a time when he used to write songs about strangers and their hidden stories.
Now the stories moved without sound, and he lived like a ghost between them.
But today, he forced himself outside.
Today, he had promised Naomi he would try.
She had left a note taped to his door — You need air. I'm not taking no for an answer. Go to Greene Street. Walk. Just walk.
He didn't remember the last time he actually listened to her.
Or anyone.
His therapist once said:
"Silence is not punishment. It's the world waiting for you to return."
He had wanted to laugh.
If silence was waiting, it would wait forever.
---
Greene Street was awake by the time he reached it. Vendors were setting up stands, college students rushed past with backpacks bouncing against their shoulders, the bakery at the corner was already releasing clouds of warm bread-scented air into the street.
Luca paused at the crosswalk, waiting for the lights — not the sounds — to tell him when to move. The vibration of approaching cars buzzed faintly through the soles of his shoes.
On the opposite side of the street stood the piano shop.
The one he hadn't entered in months.
Glass windows reflected his own faint outline — tall, dark-skinned, hair tied back in a loose knot, jaw tense. Once upon a time people recognized him instantly. His face had been plastered on music magazines, concert posters, award ceremonies.
Now his reflection felt unfamiliar. Like staring at a version of himself that never quite formed.
He was about to turn away when something brushed past him.
A girl.
A flash of chestnut hair, a messy braid, green-gray eyes unfocused as though watching a world behind the one in front of her. She carried a notebook pressed to her chest, her steps slow, unsure, as if she were navigating through half-remembered fog.
She didn't see him.
Didn't hear him.
Didn't even notice how close she came to bumping into him.
But Luca felt something — a shift in the air.
A vibration different from the rest.
She paused right at the curb, looking up at the crosswalk signal with a confusion that tugged at something deep inside him. She stared as though trying to remember what the blinking symbol meant. Her fingers trembled on the notebook.
A car approached.
Luca moved instinctively.
He stepped forward, gently placing his hand on her arm. She startled, eyes widening as she looked up at him — and for a heartbeat the world sharpened.
Her expression changed from surprise to something else… something uncertain, lost, but grateful.
He pointed at the signal.
She blinked, understanding dawning slowly, as if pieces of an invisible puzzle clicked together. She nodded once, soft and shy, before stepping back onto the sidewalk.
Luca waited with her.
She smiled — small, fleeting — but real.
When the light changed, she crossed quickly, almost floating across the street like someone who feared she'd forget where she was if she slowed down.
He watched her disappear into the crowd.
He shouldn't have cared.
He didn't even know her name.
But something about the girl lingered — the uncertainty in her gaze, the way she clutched her notebook like it held pieces of her life, the quiet trembling that reminded him painfully of someone trying to hold on to a world slipping through their fingers.
Someone fighting a silent battle.
Much like him.
---
He made his way back home hours later, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with distance. The city drained him. The memories drained him more.
When he reached his living room, he sat at the piano — touching the keys without pressing them. His fingers hovered, trembling slightly.
He could still play by muscle memory.
But what was the point when he couldn't hear the notes?
He closed his eyes.
Behind his eyelids, he saw chestnut hair.
Green-gray eyes.
A tremor of confusion.
A small, grateful smile.
The girl who didn't remember yesterday.
The girl who walked like she was holding onto a life she couldn't fully reach.
He didn't know why she stayed in his mind, but she did — more clearly than any melody he had written in two years.
Silence wasn't waiting for him.
Something else was.
Someone.
---
Across town, Lyra scribbled shakily into her notebook:
Today someone stopped me from stepping into traffic.
He didn't speak.
But I felt… safe.
Like he understood something without needing to say it.
She paused.
Then added:
I hope I see him again.
Even if tomorrow I don't remember why.