red light. spinning coins. the echo of a heartbeat on tape.
“every song deserves a heartbeat.”
a cracked snare leans against the wall. one stick is splintered halfway down, taped back together in a hurry. a cherry coke can sweats on the amp, still fizzing, years too late. the air smells faintly of sugar and static.
santi reyes grew up above a bakery in manchester — rhythm in the walls, percussion in every pan. he built his first kit out of cardboard and stubborn joy. by sixteen, he played like someone who’d waited his whole life to be heard.
he called rafe “the poet” and doreann “the priest,” swore he was the sinner that made the songs worth singing. he laughed too loud, played too fast, and left burn marks on every stage floor.
on november 12th, 1998, the van went sideways in the rain. santi was the only one conscious long enough to call for help. the tape recorder in his lap kept running until the sirens arrived — a few minutes too late.
sometimes, drumsticks appear where they shouldn’t — across old stages, in attics, near radios humming 90s rock that isn’t on air anymore. coins spin in perfect rhythm on cold tables. somewhere, a cassette still rolls, his voice on the edge of laughter:
“we’re not done yet. hit record again.”
rules of the room:
if something starts tapping, don’t interrupt the rhythm.
let the red light flicker — it means he’s close.
and if a drumbeat starts without warning, count to three.
that’s just santi, keeping time.