He dreams in gray.
A hallway with closed doors.
Carpet that swallowed sound.
Walls that always seemed too narrow.
The house wasn't loud growing up.
It was quiet in a way that felt permanent.
His parents weren't cruel.
They weren't explosive.
They were efficient.
Conversations happened at the table.
Schedules were respected.
Grades were acknowledged with short nods.
"Good."
"Keep it up."
Doors closed after that.
He learned early that silence meant everything was functioning.
If he came home on time,
no one asked where he'd been.
If he stayed in his room,
no one knocked.
If he didn't need anything,
nothing was offered.
He doesn't remember being hugged often.
He doesn't remember being pushed away either.
Just… maintained.
The dream shifts.
High school.
A different version of the same house.
He sees himself louder.
Guitar turned up past reasonable levels.
Windows vibrating slightly.
Footsteps down the hallway.
A knock.
Not angry.
Just firm.
"Turn it down."
He didn't.
Not immediately.
He wanted the second knock.
Wanted proof that someone would return if he pushed far enough.
He stayed out late sometimes.
Not recklessly.
Just enough to trigger a question at breakfast.
"You were home late."
"Yeah."
A pause.
"That's fine."
That was it.
No real consequence.
No real curiosity.
Unless he disturbed the equilibrium, nothing shifted.
The only time the air felt charged was when he disrupted it.
He doesn't remember why he stopped rebelling.
Maybe it got tiring.
Maybe he realized the noise wasn't changing anything.
Eventually he learned the opposite lesson:
If I don't disturb, everything stays calm.
If I don't disturb, no one is inconvenienced.
If I don't disturb, I am easy.
The dream fades into the first time he mentioned wanting to start a band.
He was eighteen.
Sitting on a curb outside a music shop.
Laura beside him.
He'd said it casually.
"I've always wanted to start something."
Not a demand.
Just a thought spoken out loud.
She didn't dismiss it.
She didn't nod and move on.
She structured it.
Named rehearsal days.
Found space.
Built framework around his vague want.
He hadn't expected that.
No one had ever taken his quiet statements and turned them into something real before.
The gray house dissolves.
The curb disappears.
He wakes slowly.
The room is still dim.
For a moment, the dream sits heavy in his chest.
Laura was over-structured.
He was under-attended.
She wasn't allowed to rebel.
He did—and nothing changed.
Somewhere along the way, he stopped making noise.
And learned to stay steady instead.
If I don't disturb, I don't exist.
The thought feels old.
Familiar.
He doesn't reject it.
But he doesn't fully accept it anymore either.
The morning light begins to thin the shadows.
And he lies still a moment longer before getting up.