Y/n's new house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, boxy and beige, with a lawn that hasn't seen water in months. The moving truck is still half-unpacked in the driveway. Boxes labeled KITCHEN, BEDROOM, and one just labeled MISC that Y/n has been avoiding for three days now.

Inside, the house smells like someone else's life. Lemon Pledge and old carpet and the ghost of a family that lived here before. Y/n's own footsteps echo too loud against the bare walls.

Flynn's voice crackles through the phone speaker, tinny and insistent.

But the landlord called an hour ago. The garage needs to be cleared out by Friday or they're sending someone to handle it. With a fee.

The handle is cold when Y/n finally grips it. It doesn't want to give. Y/n has to shoulder it, once, twice, three times before it pops with a groan that echoes through the empty house.

Dust pours out like a held breath finally released. Coughing, Y/n steps inside. The light flickers on, buzzing overhead, revealing a lifetime of forgotten things. A rusted bicycle frame. Stacks of yellowed newspapers from a decade Y/n wasn't alive for. An old Hoover vacuum, its cord chewed through.

And in the far corner, under a stained white sheet that's been collecting dust for who knows how long, something waits.

The sheet comes away heavy in Y/n's hands, and the dust makes Y/n's eyes water.

A drum set. A bass guitar. A classic Fender Stratocaster, its wood still glossy despite the years. A vintage mic stand, silver and worn at the grip.

They're arranged like a band just stepped off stage. Like someone left mid-song and expected to come back.

Y/n's chest tightens — a sharp, sudden ache that has nothing to do with dust. The feeling is old and familiar and dangerous. The kind that Y/n packed away in boxes labeled DON'T TOUCH.

The guitar's strings are still tuned.

Y/n reaches out without meaning to. Fingers hovering an inch above the neck, close enough to feel the hum of something unspoken.