radio hum. sea salt. the afterglow of something almost divine.
“music’s just noise until it’s about someone.”
the amp still smells faintly of salt and smoke. a bass leans in the corner, strings slack, frets cold to the touch. the carpet softens with a memory of feedback — a low, living pulse.
doreann grew up by the sea in brighton, the younger son of a radio repairman and a painter who stopped finishing her work. arguments filled the gaps the music didn’t. he learned early how to keep rhythm with his breathing — slow, steady, unshaken, even when the house wasn’t.
he met rafe at sixteen, both chasing the same ache. santi came later, all nerves and joy, a heartbeat in sneakers too big for him. doreann pretended to be annoyed but tuned santi’s drums when no one looked.
on november 12th, 1998, the van skidded out on a rain-slick road outside oxford. doreann was found several feet from the wreckage, hands burned — he had tried to pull the others free. the bass survived, but it doesn’t stay in tune.
sometimes, the radio near his desk catches songs that don’t exist — low and half-formed, like they’re still deciding who they’re for. if you listen long enough, the static starts to sound like three voices laughing.
rules of the room:
don’t touch the bass unless you mean it.
speak gently to the static — he’s listening.
and if the hum cuts out mid-song, wait.
that’s just doreann, remembering how it ended.