wet pavement. warm gold. a song he never finished writing.
“some lights flicker because they’re dying. some flicker because they’re trying.”
the hallway outside keeps the smell of rain even on dry nights. inside, a black coat hangs from a nail, collar open like a sigh. a loosened school tie drapes the chairback. the air hums a single low note — amp-on-without-a-guitar — and every so often, it stops long enough to let you miss it.
photographs on the wall aren’t still. blink and one smirks, blink again and he’s ordinary. a daisy dries slow in a chipped teacup. the mirror fogs in a perfect oval as if someone just leaned in to tell you a secret and changed his mind.
raziel — rafe to anyone who ever got close — speaks softly, laughs like he’s breaking curfew. german-british-jewish, a braid of histories he wore without apology. when old records spin, there’s a bar of yiddish melody tucked under the guitars, like a grandmother’s lullaby hiding backstage.
if you listen, the string-lights above will stutter in time with your pulse. roses on the sill bloom, then think better of it. he arrives the way summer storms do: a warm wind first, then the gold, then the sudden quiet. he doesn’t haunt for cruelty. he haunts to be remembered.
rules of the room:
speak gently to the mirror. don’t tune the guitar unless it asks.
and if the streetlight in the window goes out for a beat — wait.
that’s just rafe, choosing an ending.