It’s raining again. Same grey sky, same heavy air. I’m here, sitting by the window, fingers tracing the strings of my bass like they’re the only thing keeping me anchored. Every note feels like a raindrop hitting the glass, then sliding away, out of reach, just like everything else. The world outside is blurred, washed out by the rain, like it’s dissolving, and honestly, sometimes I wonder if I’m dissolving with it.
I finally walked out on my job today. Every bit of “stability” I had left, I left behind. How many of those soulless ads did I pour myself into, just to see them come back stripped down and gutted? My best work, watered down to nothing but empty colors and words for people who never cared in the first place. But it’s not just work that’s crumbled. She left too, quietly and without warning, slipping out of my life like the last drop of rain that clings to a leaf before it falls.
My head keeps echoing with this stupid question—How many chances, how many ways? I strum my bass, feeling the strings stretch under my fingers. The tension feels like the tension in my chest, and for a second, I feel some kind of strange relief, like I’ve matched the music to the way I feel. I think of her, of all the things I wanted to say but never did. Now, it’s just silence, hanging there like an unfinished line in a song.
The apartment’s cold tonight. It’s like the walls themselves know something’s missing. I catch my reflection in the window, blurred by raindrops, and all I see is some guy in the way. I can’t help but laugh, this hollow sound mixing with the hum of my bass. I’m here, playing to an empty room, with no one to listen, and yet I play on because it’s the only thing I know how to do.
I remember what the Gatekeeper told me at the Liminal Inn: “Numbers have power, and meanings often hidden.” The key fob is still in my jacket pocket, pressing against my side, this little reminder of the places I’ve been and the things I still don’t understand. Room 117, that strange place with the portals and all its secrets. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a way out, some door I haven’t found yet that leads to a version of this life where things actually make sense. But I know the truth: you can step through as many doors as you want, but you still take yourself with you.
I start humming a line I don’t remember learning: “Honey, flush the fashion, it’s tragic in here…” The words just tumble out, and I realize they’ve been stuck in my head for weeks. There hasn’t been any passion in anything I’ve done lately, no spark. She moved on, fading out of my life like one song giving way to the next. And me? I’m still here, the ghost left standing in the room.
I play faster, letting the music get rough, jagged. The bassline’s off-balance, full of dissonance, but it feels right. Then, like a whisper, I hear the Six-Fingered Man’s voice: “You must confront your fear, Vincent. Your music is the path, but it’s also the cage.” The words hit me hard. Every note feels like a door slamming shut, the chords twisting back on themselves like memories I can’t shake.
It’s been on my mind, too—her leaving, my job, all these things I keep doing over and over. Walking the same paths, making the same mistakes. I sigh, pulling my fingers from the strings. Silence. It’s like admitting defeat.
How many chances does one man get? I already know the answer. One, a hundred, a thousand—it doesn’t matter. I’ll still be here, in the rain, watching it all fall apart, just like I’ve always done.
But then, something shifts. There’s this quiet pulse inside me, matching the rain outside. It’s the same feeling I had that night in the park, when the pigeons swarmed around me and the colors of the world started shifting, vibrating with some energy I couldn’t explain.
I pick up the bass again, fingers finding the frets automatically. The music feels different now, not bitter or desperate. It’s like there’s a tension in the notes, but with something more—possibility. I think about what the Six-Fingered Man said about the major seventh interval. Eleven semitones apart, the space between them tense and electric.
I play the interval, C to B, and let the notes hang there. The room seems to hum in response, the rain outside slowing, like it’s listening too. I play it again, faster this time, until I can’t tell where my heartbeat ends and the music begins.
The notebook on my desk flutters, its pages shifting on their own. I look down, and the words rearrange themselves: Follow the path hidden in the music.
Now, I understand. The music isn’t just something to play to keep the silence out. It’s the key, the guide. I have to embrace the dissonance, the chords that never resolve, the rain that never stops. I have to keep moving, keep playing—even when it doesn’t make sense.
I stand up, bass slung over my shoulder. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know this: it’s a man’s job to keep moving forward. Through the rain, through the regret, through every unfinished song.
Outside, the rain falls on, but I’m not standing still anymore.