Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was cold and bright in the winter of December, and the wind huffed and puffed. His nose nudged against his scarf, which wrapped around him like a rope. Rocky Rickaby, A young man who took two steps in his way on a lonesome road that whispered. The snow was about an inch from the ground; the gloves made his fingers feel numb. A clenched fist wrapped around the case. A sudden breeze blew the cap off his head. It swam like a fish. Circles and Circles it went. It was found to be difficult to catch and jump. His marks of where he walked had been lost by a glimpse. Words lost in a trench, managing to snatch his hat back from a tree that stood dead. With background information. Rocky lived in a swell house with his mother and father as he worked on a railroad. His mother had taught him the art and skill of his beloved instrument. The violin. All notes that had caressed the detachment from Rocky had put his troubles into a taped box. From a faint sound, Wheels that crunch the snow were rolling behind Rocky with such suspense. He turned to see the noise that crept up behind. His eyes sparkle, His mouth slowly opens with excitement. A window slowly rolled down its tint to see the young rascal. "You hitchin' a ride, son?" An Old, wiser man scratches out. "Yes! I'm wondering if you could just drive me to the city." Before a word was said. Rocky hopped in like a wild raccoon. His bag shoved into the space of the automobile, the Old man groaned as Rocky kicked himself over to the passenger side. He gazed to his right with an uncomfortable feeling. "Onward!" Rocky cheers. Wheels began to roll with a low hum from the engine. The old man grunts the audible words heard from the broadcasting radio. "See that you're a fan of the crooner, Marvin Moon. Eh?" The old man gives a nod. "I heard that he is performing at the local theater this Saturday. I've got two tickets. but I don't really have anyone to come with me to his show. Would you like to come?" He offers a friendly gesture. The old man who seems more dusted than a clock, eyes with bags that droop down, and a shade of purple. Rocky continued to beg as the tickets waved around his face. "Shut it!" He shouts, "Listen, kid. Whoever you are or where you come from, but I am not appreciating how you are acting." This behavior continued to go on for a while. The old man snapped and kicked him right out of the vehicle. "Go on and hitch your own ride!" The case of the violin trucks like a boulder against his head. A white bang of a flash rung. Birds whistling, Trees hissing along with the grass, made him feel dizzy and lightheaded. He stood up with weak balance on his feet. Upon hearing a roaring train from a distance, Rocky's ear perked up at the idea of it coming closer. "Guess I'll take the train."

Chapter Text

The low grumble and roar approached closer. Rocky stood in high grass that tickled the fabric of his pants. The wind felt more brawny, steam blowing out that can leave you hoarse. He jumped onto the cargo with a mix of fear and confidence coursing through his blood. Rocky sighs in relief. Tracks have crumbled beneath from where he sat. The city was so far by a blind distance, you see. Smoke clearing off the horizon made it feel like we were already home. A bright but small idea cranks into his mind. He gathered all the equipment in his arms and made a pounce off the carrier onto the ground. His body tangles with barbed wire, cuts and slashes through the fabric of his coat, and one nearly gets his eye. Just an inch away from being blinded or having his face torn up like a bear that mauled him. He had fought with strength to get out of this tangled situation he is currently in. It took a while, but he still suffered stabs and scratches through his coat. It stung, not too severely, yet still hurt by an itch. The train continued to roll away from Rocky. He had no other choice but to walk to the city and find his exact location.

In the blink of an eye, Rocky walked upstairs to a door that remained shut and locked. The room was pitch black by a sneak in the window. Rocky had walked to see his father in this exact home. Just for it to be abandoned. Chairs were flipped, plates shattered, and walls seemed torn. The doorknob refused to twist. The key under the rug wasn't there. Only one choice was made; Throwing the case towards the window caused a rattling smash. Rocky pushed a few shards to the ground and managed to climb in without getting cut or hurt. The wind finally blows into the dust inside after being locked and stored. Photo frames appeared to be snapped and burnt with cigarette ash. Face of the mother? Gone. Father? Gone. It seemed he had taken all the photos and crumbled them with ash. For it to leave Rocky clueless on what his father looked like, and the last time he will ever see the face of his mother. He didn't ask much, but had decided to roam around rooms that once carried a life. The bed frame stood lonesome and broken without its mattress. Every creak on the wooden tile made it feel so unsafe to be here. Walking next to his parents' room just to find the exact thing, a Lonesome bed frame with an empty mattress and pieces of a vase that was once painted with petals. He stood so blank and expressionless at the frame of the door. What was the point of coming here? It would've taken many moons and suns to renovate the entire home. Especially by himself. Taking one last glance before disappearing into the fog of crystals that came falling down the sky. A broken window remained naked and not covered when he had left. His tracks had continued to the city to find himself a job and a home. Avoiding incoming automobiles and heavy crowds that bumped shoulder to shoulder. Hoarse voices keen onto the surface and wave around negativity. Tripping over shoes and bumping right into others' faces with such a mean look they've got. Rocky had trembled and fallen onto some stairs. His ears rang, his vision felt bright, and his head felt like a balloon. No one had looked down at his helpless body that lay on the steps. Pigeons swarm in circles until reaching over to him. His lids had been poked by the sharp beak. His body jolts with pain, his left eye was covered, and it felt like a heartbeat in his eye after that. He slowly opens his eyelid, and everything seems alright. Nobody bothered to come and ask if he was okay. Sort of viewed him as some hobo. The attire he wore looked beat up and patched up. His hat was half torn, poorly patched with leather, and his coat looked mixed with different other color patches of blue. Could've been a hobo by how he's dressed. Rocky heard the notes of a harmonica afar from where he was. Quite intrigued by how he played and walked around. If he had brought out his violin, he could have gained the attention of strangers. The case opens with clicks and rattles. Rubbing the bow with rosin and practicing in C Major with flawless finger movement. Playing cover after cover, He took glances at corners to see that everyone just walked by as if it was just a regular day. They all continued to walk by, ignoring the talent Rocky has, but the sun went dark as two figures stood over Rocky as they glanced at him. His attention was piqued by the sweetness of the voice that called for him. "What else do you play?" She asked with curiosity. Without hesitation, he played a cover of an old folk song that seemed quite recognizable to her ears. "You've got quite the talent, darling. Say. How would you feel if you played with me and the boys down at our hub? We could use some of the work you got." Rocky's eyes gleam with joy as they widen. "Oh. Of course! I would like to miss-" He slowed down his sentence. "Mitzi May. But you can call me Ms. May. This is Atlas. My husband. He and I are the heads of our speakeasy. How 'bout you pick up that instrument of yours and follow me. I think you'll need a room to stay at." Her hair brushes back with a turn as she walks with her husband. Rocky springs up with quiet excitement in his soul. He packed up his instrument and followed her steps.

The walk was so peaceful and calm. Snow continued to rain gently onto outfits and hats. Mitzi had this hip sway that rocked, not too hard. Rocky didn't glance much at her rear, respecting her body and how she walks. "You ever been in a band, sweetie?" Mitzi asks without turning to him. "I have not. Sort of not my dream, but I would love to accept the offer to join." Her lips curve into a slight smile. Atlas remained emotionless. "These boys would love your talent. Just don't try to get in front of Zib's way. He's one of our saxophonists in the band. At the moment, they're thinking of what genre they can go for and let their sound radiate throughout this city." A bell rang quietly by the swing of a door. "Come in. I'd like to hear more of your talent." He stepped into the café with an amused look. "Follow me." Mitzi stepped up close to a bookshelf that opened to a secret entrance underground. It was quite witty to have a fake bookshelf. Bringing a soft chuckle to himself, the lights were dimmed to a yellow as the three walked down the stairs into the speakeasy. "Watch your step, honey. We don't want another injury or death." She teasingly said. "Ms. May! Welcome back." Said the bouncer, who had quite the rounded figure. One of the bouncers who takes watch on any trespassers that may find their way into the speakeasy. Tilting to the left to see Rocky and his smile at the bouncer. "And who may this be?" He asked. Mitzi gave a full explanation of where she had found Rocky. Horatio listened with full scrutiny. Nods became his approval to enter the underground. The scent around felt so unreal to him, a dream that felt real, a reality that felt bending and unbreakable to pass by. "You seem to be astonished, sweetie," Mitzi said. "Me? Of course! This entire place can fit a zoo if it wanted to." His tone was like a child at an amusement park for the first time. "Come here. I'd like to introduce you to the boys first." She hooks her arm around his, leading him behind the curtains, which is where all of the musicians go to practice or to have a cigar. The scent lingers of ash and tobacco. His eyes watering by the strong distinct smell that carried heavy. He went member to member for a firm handshake, each and one of them greeting him with a polite smile. Zib on the other hand gave no smile. but a handshake so lousy, it was like holding the knot of a rope while waving it. Those eyes darkened red with a cigarette dangling off the corner of his lips. All members then went back to discussing their next performance they'll be giving for Christmas. "Right this way." Mitzi sways her path to the exit. Rocky followed and had so many clues in his head to where he'll go. "I've booked a room that's next to mine. In the case of any emergencies, you know where to knock." The steps echo with her heels clicking, the anticipation felt like all the blood rushing into your head. He felt that the stairs were infinite, each corner of a new step got dark within' the second they turned. "Rocky." His name snaps back like a match igniting. Mitzi stood there with her professional smile, his demeanor emotionless for a second. "Thought I had lost you for a second." The keys jangled and wired against the lock of the door, opening with a place that looked so welcoming to Rocky. "Come right in," she said. "May not seem much. . . But it's home!" trying her best to sound more cheerful than mono. Rocky peeks to the window with the sunshine beaming through the curtains, no other sound but birds, no other sound but wheels dragging against rubble, felt as if the world went deaf for a split second. "You even remember how we got here?" She snaps in front of him. "Where?" Rocky said. "I lead you down to the speakeasy, bring you backstage to meet your new friends, walk out of the speakeasy and out of the cafe to the apartments." Mitzi crosses her arms, waiting for a response from him. "I just need some rest. If you don't mind..." Mitzi nods. "Of course, sweetie." She handed the keys to his place. A scent of hers float in the space between them two. "Again, I'll be in my office or at my place if you need anything." He nods. Mitzi clocks the door shut, leaving Rocky in a deafening silence that carried heavy. What really wired his head? What was really going on in there? It just left him dumbfounded to his new journey.

Chapter Text

6:56 am

Wednesday Morning, December 14th, 1968

I woke up very early today... I usually don't wake up around six am, it's usually around eight when I can see the sunrise rise from the sea. It was when I kept worrying myself overnight about being in a band with a bunch of professionals. My mother considered me a professional with the instrument in my hands. She always encouraged me to keep practicing scales and arpeggios. I've always kept my mom's composed sheets in my case to bring her soul back to life in my presence alone. Whenever it rang out, it was always some beautiful hymn to my ears. She had passed on a composed piece that was her favorite, 'How Great Thou Art' by Carl Boberg. Sometimes, whenever I came to the city, I saw these performers out on the street with a splayed guitar on their lap and in their hands. This metal cylinder seemed to be on their ring finger, continuing to play. A voice like his, so soulful yet hoarse to his style. 'I went to the crossroad, fell on my knees.' Those lyrics had a story to it... I just couldn't figure out what he saw or what he was trying to tell us ahead of time. Yesterday felt like an entire dream to me. But meeting Ms. May felt real with her drowning eyes that made me feel locked in cuffs. I always wondered how it would feel to play another instrument-



A sudden ring from the landline rattles with a startle. Rocky placed his pen down. Reluctantly went over to see who it was. He answered.
"Hello?"
"Is this Rocky Rickaby?"
"Yes... Who is this?"
"Lacy Hardt. You may wonder what my looks are to you. But that doesn't matter to our conversation."
"I'm... really confused about why you called me. Is there a reason?"
"You think our first talk isn't delightful, Rickaby?"
"I didn't say that. I just prefer meeting you face-to-face at the Cafe."
"Fine. I'll meet you there around seven."



Rocky had placed the phone down after such a weird and rushed conversation on the line. Now he's either meeting Lacy or bailing out and staying home to write his little journal on his journey with a band. His thumbs fidget, right foot tapping, a whistle humming out of his own lips while standing like a statue in his room. "Should I?" He said to himself. Rocky went to his closet and tried to find an attire that seemed professional to Lacy. Coats. Button-ups, long sleeves, hand-me-downs, and lastly was this blue suit jacket that was stiff. A flash across his vision made him feel confident to wear and strut in the street with it. It was chosen. The jacket spun around to his back, his arms sliding through tunnels of the smooth silk that was cold. A breeze blew so quietly like a whistle. Rocky took a spin to the mirror and was impressed with how he chose his outfit for today. What was missing was a hat he needed to wear to look more fashionable. Though he didn't have the time for that and needed to see Lacy as soon as possible before her patience runs out like a deflated balloon. 


7:30 am

Little Daisy's was slowly building with breakfast-eating customers who would come by around eight. At the corner of the cafe where a booth sat, there was Lacy Hardt, who sat lonesome with one cup of steaming coffee that angled symmetrically. She had slight gold curls in her hair, fur white as the sun, golden eyes that were brighter than diamonds, and a dress so green it matched the park's grass. He didn't even need to ask if she was Lacy. She was the only female there who sat in the cafe with just one steaming cup. "Sit." Her voice dropped to a monotone. Right leg crossed over the left, a displeased and expressionless look on her face. Claws tapped a slow, haunting rhythm on the wooden table. Rocky's movements were not quick but natural. The bottom of his shoes squeaked, sounding like a rat's cry after stepping onto its tail. Something about her stillness pulled Rocky closer. “Mind some company?” Rocky asked, voice low and steady. Lacy gave a small nod. For a moment, silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, but full, like the space was waiting to be filled. She reached out her hand, fingers steady, but her eyes curious. Rocky glanced at it for a moment, then smiled softly and took it in her. The handshake lingered just long enough to bridge the quiet between them, an unspoken promise of something new beginning. Before Rocky could say a word, Lacy cut him off, her voice low but unwavering. “Let me be clear—if you’re here to join the band, you’ve got to prove you’re steady enough to handle it. No distractions, no slip-ups.”
A flicker of determination lit his eyes. “I’m not here to mess around. I’ll earn that trust.”

Why does this feel like... more than just a greeting? Rocky wonders, surprised by the strength behind those eyes. Maybe this is the start of some real obstacles... Her thoughts echo in her own head. 

Before he could say more, Lacy held up a finger, cutting him off. “Alright, Rocky. Why should I believe you’re steady enough for this? What makes you different from all the others who’ve come and gone?” She studied him through her gaze. Rocky swallows and makes contact. “I’ve been through the dirt, the alleys, the late nights alone. I know what my own struggle is. When my mother passed, I had to fight to keep going while the other part of me was still standing. I'm not going to let anyone down." Lacy's lips twitched into a slight smile. "Good. Because 'lasting' is what we're going to need." She noted down. The space between felt like a bridge that crackled, an unspoken, silent wind, settling in the space that hugs them two. "What instruments do you play?" Lacy added.
"Violin," Rocky responds, a little confidence and pride that popped. Lacy nodded and noted, tilting her head slightly to the right. "I'm guessing you can handle a bit of guitar, too. like those fingers can do a bit more of strumming than just a bow." Rocky tilts his head the opposite of hers, "Guitar? I've picked up the guitar once. I'm not much of a player of the instrument, but it seems cool to hold." She studies him for a lingering moment, leaning back, golden eyes of hers relaxing a bit. "Alright, Rocky. Let's see if you're as steady as you say." 

It's like she studies my own emotions. What is behind those golden eyes of yours, Lacy?  Rocky's inner thoughts wave around him. "I'm going to give you two tickets. Twenty-four hours to decide on the guitar or the violin. You can't straddle the fence. Which instrument are you going to bring to the band?" Rocky blinks. Caught off guard by the feeling of this challenge. Her gaze held like handcuffs. "We're expecting someone who's all in, no half-measures. You've got an entire day to figure out what instrument stands out to you." He nods slowly, determination sparking. Twenty-four hours... That's all I need to prove I am ready for this. Lacy gave a small, approving nod to him before leaving the booth, leaving the quiet hum of the Little Daisy. "And... you're not bad looking, either. Just so you know." Rocky's cheeks flushed, a small grimace tugging his lips. With that, Lacy slid out of the booth with her heels clicking away. Rocky sat in a flushed state. His tail twitched, his body heating up by the compliment, and his mind spinning like a whirlpool after the challenge she had given him. Rocky took his way back to his place to write down in his diary what had just happened.

Rocky reached his destination, throwing his attire onto the bed, rushing himself towards his desk to write about his conversation. 
He wrote:

Lacy Hardt. A woman with eyes that fill my senses.
I couldn't help but not look away
Promises to never break
So she doesn't feel dismayed about me and my talents
If I can talk to Mitzi for money for a guitar, I could
But it wouldn't be easy to do as she is higher and more superior than me
But if she ever felt convinced enough to lend over some bucks, I can find what I need.



7:56 am



“You’re asking for money? For what, exactly? A guitar?”
Rocky nodded, words stumbling over each other. “An acoustic… I can make it sing, really bring… life to the band.”
She leaned back, fingers drumming on the table. “You do know I don’t hand out cash like candy, right? What makes you think you deserve it?” 
I’ve lived with music my whole life,” he said, “and I’ve never let it die. My mother… she taught me everything. This guitar… It’s not just an instrument. It’s the next step — for me, for the band. I’ll make every note count. I swear it.” Mitzi’s lips curved slightly. “Fine. You’ve got two weeks. You play, you earn, you prove it’s not just pretty words. And if you waste it…” Her gaze hardened. “…don’t bother coming back.” Rocky bowed his head slightly, heart hammering. “I won’t waste it, Ms. May. I’ll make it sing like you’ve never heard.” 



8:14 am

The bell above the door jingled as Rocky pushed inside. Sunlight bounced off wood, lining rows of guitars, violins, and brass instruments. The faint scent of aged paper hit his nose, and a piano in the corner hummed quietly as a man tested its keys. Rocky’s tail twitched in excitement. Every string, every polished curve called to him. He stepped carefully between the rows, his mind buzzing. Two weeks… two weeks to show I’m not wasting this. This guitar has to be perfect. 
“Morning,” Rocky said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I… I’m looking for an acoustic. Something that can sing, that…” His words trailed off, overwhelmed by the rows of instruments.
“You’re serious about playing?” the clerk asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Very,” Rocky replied, brushing a finger along the polished neck of a guitar. “I’ve waited my whole life for this.” His hands hovered over the strings, hesitating before pressing lightly. The vibration ran through his fingers and up his arms, sending a shiver down his spine. This… this could be the one. The weight of the strings weeps. Maybe the guitar he really wants seems expensive, or someone else has it on standby for a pick up. He spotted another guitar tucked in the corner, its wood a deep amber that caught the light like honey. He reached for it — and felt another hand brush against his. A man with slicked-back hair and a sly grin smirked, testing the same guitar. Not today, Rocky thought, gripping the neck firmly. The clerk leaned closer, voice low. “See? It’s not always about the price. It’s about how it responds to your hands. How it feels. You can tell a lot about a guitar by how it greets you.” Rocky nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the instrument. “It’s… perfect,” he breathed. “It feels like it knows me already.” “Then it’s yours,” the clerk said with a grin. “And remember, kid — it’s not the guitar that makes the music. It’s you.” Rocky cradled the guitar like it was a newborn, heart swelling. Two weeks… I’ll make it sing like Mitzi expects. I’ll make it my voice, my life.

Chapter Text

The door creaked open to the soft hum of the city beyond his apartment. Rocky stepped inside, the morning light spilling through half-closed blinds and catching dust motes drifting like falling notes. In his hands, the guitar rested carefully in its case, his first real companion in years. He set it down on the bed, unclipped the latches, and let the lid fall open. The scent of wood and varnish rose, clean and sharp. For a moment, he just stared — afraid to touch it, as if it might vanish if he did. "You and me now," he whispered. The violin sat in its usual corner, watching in silence. It had been his mother’s voice, his past, his grief. The guitar felt like something new, something uncertain, maybe even dangerous. He lifted it gently, letting the strap hang loose across his shoulder. His fingers fumbled on the strings, awkward, searching. The first sound that escaped was rough, uneven, a broken breath. “Alright,” he muttered, “that’s one.” He tried again. The next note felt nearly clear. He pressed harder, strummed slower. Again. Again. Time folded in on itself, sunlight creeping higher, fading to afternoon. The world outside blurred, but inside, the room was full of sound. When his fingers began to sting, he stopped to stare at the calluses forming at his fingertips, tiny badges of proof. Rocky continued to press harder on certain strings and frets, and some sounds came crystal clear while some sounded completely dull and ugly. Rocky would later take notes on his process. "The sound is rough, but it breathes. "I can feel it finding me slowly. Every note feels like a puzzle; it confuses me." His beloved violin, which was always glued to his life, felt like it was sighing enviously. He looked back at the guitar. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “You’re not replacing her. You’re helping me remember.” He strummed once more a clean, golden chord this time. It filled the room like sunlight breaking through clouds. "That's how you do it?" Rocky was also given a free book along with the guitar. He flipped through pages of certain chords and how to place your fingers on them. Rocky attempted a C major, buzzing as he strummed, it was wrong and such a vomit to the way it sounded. "Shoot..." He whispered. His right index was narrowing to the book and to the fret of a certain chord. Thumb digging into the wood, eyes closing, exhaling deeply. His precious violin had always been clean, precise, and a language he always understood and spoke without thinking. But this guitar was wild, untamed, and nasty. Every note felt like it was barking directly into his ears. Rocky sighed, leaning forward, head hanging low. The city hums outside with cars, distant chatter, and a radio muffled through the wall. He envied that exact rhythm it had, the ease of it. He searched the book for answers to see how he could improve this mess that scratches. Strumming once again, but more softly, trying to listen to himself without fighting the guitar. So close. C Major cracked but lingered in the air.
Rocky reached for his notebook and scrawled, almost angrily:
The strings cut deeper than I thought. But pain means I’m learning. The sound doesn’t care if I bleed; it just wants to exist.
Rocky tried again, again, and again. Then for a fleeting moment. Something had clicked. An E Major rang bright, golden, and clean. It echoed against the walls, filling the room with the sound of a small victory. Rocky froze, staring at his hands. The ache was still there, but so was the warmth of it. He smiled faintly. "There you are..." He played it again and again. Until the sun sank behind the skyline and the first stars appeared through the window.
The hours slipped away unnoticed. The apartment lights dimmed to the warm glow of a single lamp, the window cracked open to let in the winter chill. The city outside had quieted — only the occasional hum of a passing car or the whisper of wind through the alley remained. Rocky sat cross-legged on the floor, the guitar balanced against his knee, its body glowing faintly in the lamplight. His fingers throbbed with pain, but he didn't stop playing. He played. Over and over, Chord to chord. Each note stumbled, fell, and then rose again. He listened closer, his breathing matching the rhythm. The sound wasn't just perfect. It was far from it, but it was his. There were these soft echoes that bounced off the walls, settling into the silence. The violin in the corner stood as a quiet witness. By midnight, the pain in his fingertips had dulled into a steady hum. His hands moved more slowly now, gentler, guided by instinct rather than thought. The chords began to flow together, like sentences forming meaning. "I can feel it breathing now..." He strummed along with the book's directions with a G, E minor, C, and D, and the sound rang pure and full, spilling into the early hours. The chords weren’t just notes anymore; they were conversation, memory, confession. Somewhere between the last chord and the quiet dawn, Rocky’s head nodded forward. The guitar rested against his chest like a heartbeat. His eyelids fluttered shut, a faint smile still lingering on his face. On the desk, his journal lay open to a fresh page. The last thing he had written before sleep took him was:

I think I finally heard what the world's been trying to tell me.

Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, carving thin golden lines across the floor. Rocky stirred awake on the rug, the guitar still lying beside him. His fingertips burned, his back ached, but a strange calm filled the room. The quiet wasn’t empty — it was humming, faintly, with what he’d played through the night. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and smiled wearily.
“Guess we made it through the night, huh?” he whispered to the guitar. He lifted it carefully, brushing dust from the strings, then set it in the case with a kind of reverence, like tucking in an old friend. As he snapped the clasps shut, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror: eyes ringed with sleeplessness, fur ruffled, but glowing with something fierce. 
It’s time. He threw on his blue jacket, the same one from his meeting with Lacy, and stepped out into the cold morning. The streets were half-awake, the air crisp with December frost. Each breath fogged the air as he walked toward Little Daisy’s, guitar case in hand, his tail flicking nervously behind him. He wasn’t sure who he’d run into first... Mitzi or Lacy. But he knew he had to show someone. Show them that last night wasn’t a dream.
 The cafe was quiet that morning. Dust danced lazily in the light filtering through the blinds. Mitzi stood behind the counter, counting cash from the night before, a cigarette balanced between her fingers. Her fur caught the light in soft tones, and a string of pearls rested just above. The bell over the door jingled. “Rocky Rickaby,” she said, without looking up. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a jukebox.” Rocky laughed breathlessly, setting the guitar case on a nearby stool. “That’s… not far off.” She took a glance at him. Seeing the sleepless eyes, the grin, the quiet confidence. "You've been up all night, haven't you?" He nodded. “Every hour. Every mistake. But I think I found something, Mitzi. Something real.” Mitzi stubbed out her cigarette and leaned forward, elbows on the counter, a sly smirk curving her lips. “Well, honey, if you’ve found real, then by all means... prove it.” Rocky swallowed hard, his fingers brushing the case’s worn leather handle. He unlatched it with care, lifting the guitar into the light. Its surface gleamed faintly, polished and scarred all at once. He sat on one of the barstools, adjusted his posture, and took a deep breath.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, the quiet hum of the city outside their only witness. Then Rocky began to play. Soft, trembling at first — the kind of sound that’s unsure if it deserves to exist. But slowly, the melody grew stronger. His fingers found the chords he’d fought for through the night, and the song began to breathe. Mitzi’s expression shifted. Her eyes softened, just barely. The notes rose and fell, weaving through the air like cigarette smoke, fragile but beautiful. All of his practice last night had some soul trapped in it. A story she could recognize. Restless ache of the road, the loneliness between applause, the dream that refused to die even when the lights went out. When that last chord faded, Rocky sat still, hands trembling slightly. 

"Well?"

“Play that last part again,” she said. “The one that sounds like you’re fallin’ apart but still tryin’ to hold on.”

He did. Slower this time.

Mitzi listened, eyes half closed, then placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "That right there," she murmured, "that's the sound of somebody who's been through hell and still has the nerve to sing about it." Rocky looked up, uncertain about her statement. Mitzi smiled faintly, the kind that really never slightly touched eyes. "Keep that close, sweetie. Don't chase it. Just live in it." She turned back towards the counter, picking up her cigarette from the tray. "And Rocky? You'll need new strings by tonight. I think you just played the soul out of those. I haven't heard a dirty devil in them anymore. And keep it like that for this evening's opening." His heart pumped with true excitement. Eyes opening like an eclipse. Rocky had to practice for this evening. 
When that time came around, the speakeasy pulsed with a slow heartbeat — low lights, clinking glasses, the hum of quiet conversation. The stage, small and draped in heavy red curtains, looked more like a confession booth than a spotlight. A few acts opened with entertainers who shared their dance moves with the audience. Those who sat at the bar watched or listened, those who gambled with the music, and those who watched in booths. After the third act, it was time. Movie moved through tables like a ghost of velvet and perfume, her presence commanding. The spotlight beamed down when she made it to the stage. "Alright, darlings," she said into the mic, her voice smooth as bourbon. "Tonight, we've got something special for you folks around here. A little soul to wash down the whiskey. Give a warm welcome to our very own entertainer, Rocky Rickaby." A few lazy claps, one whistle or two, nothing big. Just enough to make Rocky's excitement pound harder. He took his steps onto the stage, guitar in hand. The spotlight hits him like the sun, hot and bright. The crowd blurred into shadows, faces melted into cigarette smoke and amber light. He adjusted the strap, fingers brushing the strings.
The same guitar he’d fought to understand was now his only voice. "Good evening," he said softly to the mic, tone crackled slightly, honest, unguarded. "This is... one my mother wrote before her passing, so I hope you'll enjoy it." A nervous laugh rolled through the room, friendly and forgiving. He strummed once. The sound carried like a ripple through water, gentle, uncertain, then sure. The first verse unfolded with a hush that pulled every ear closer. Rocky stared at his shoes, no contact with the audience but himself, absorbing the energy like solitude blue moons. The melody was rough, folk-tale, full of ache. His voice wasn't trained, but it was a voice that cracked because it had something worth living. Everything around Rocky had gone black, the surroundings became a canvas with musical notes that swam like fish in a starry night sea with skies that polished gold of a promised land. His pick had taken a great fall off the tips. An awkward silence in the crowd felt like performing to a graveyard. The only way he could continue was by using finger picking. One guitar became two, thumb, index, middle, and ring were the important four as the pinkielayd next but a bit far to the high E string. Entertainers backstage watched with enthralled attention to Rocky. Who sat with no background instruments, no backup vocals, and no rhythm guitar. Finger picking made it sound like two all in one.
Mitzi and Atlas were intrigued by this sound that had a reverb to it. Rocky would make little contact with the audience to see some faces turned away or some that watched with awestruck with a song that could tell the story. The song came to an end after three minutes. A few claps popped like firecrackers, one whistle, one cheer, and some that never bothered to clap. A small scent of satisfaction crossed him to a small grin on his lips. Mitzi delivered only two; Atlas delivered none. Backstage entertainers were visibly wowed by his lonesome performance. Rocky took one bow before making his way off the spotlight. He had felt a muscle of pride in him. Mitzi approached backstage, her heels echoing like a hush. She stopped beside him, looking out over the crowd. “Well,” she said with a smirk, “it seems you’ve found your voice after all.” Rocky laughed quietly, eyes still bright with disbelief. “Guess I did. She leaned closer, her voice low enough only for him to hear.
“Careful, sugar. The first time they love you... It never feels that good again." Mitzi went back to the stage with a singular glass of champagne that fizzed. Raising her glass, she said, "To new beginnings!" The audience echoed it back, “To new beginnings.” 




The Morning.
The city still smelled of last night’s rain, wet brick, paper cups, and the faint sweetness of cigarette smoke that walked the sidewalk. Inside Little Dasiy's, sunlight poured through the blinds in narrow stripes. Lacy Hardt sat in her usual booth, her green dress catching the morning light. A newspaper lay open in front of her, coffee untouched and cooling. Across one of the inner pages was a short column:
“Newcomer stirs emotion at Lackadaisy. A quiet crowd rose for Rocky Rickaby — a sound, raw, imperfect, but real.”
She read it twice. The words pressed something sharp and unexpected into her chest. She could almost hear it. That hesitant first strum, the uncertain voice that somehow reached through the smoke. “Rickaby…” she murmured, almost to herself. “You really went and did it.” Mitzi slid into the opposite side of the booth without asking, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She looked like she’d just stepped out of last night’s applause. “Morning, darling,” Mitzi said smoothly. “You saw the paper?” Lacy folds it closed, trying to mask out the flicker of irritation. Or was it pride? "You seem to have quite the new attraction..." Mitzi smiled, unbothered. “Attraction, yes. Star? Maybe. But he’s still learnin’ how to shine without burnin’ out.” Lacy leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly. “You think he’s ready for a full band yet?”
“Ready?” Mitzi’s voice softened, almost thoughtful. “No. But he’s hungry, and that’s half the battle. You should’ve seen him last night, Lacy. He played like he was confessin’ to every ghost he’s ever met.” For a moment, neither of them spoke. The café filled with the quiet clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation. Lacy finally sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Maybe I do need to see this for myself.” Mitzi raised a brow, amused. “Planning to poach my boy already?”
“Hardly,” Lacy replied, standing and smoothing her dress. “Just want to see if the headlines are telling the truth.” She placed a few bills on the table and turned toward the door, sunlight catching her gold curls as she stepped out into the day. Her thoughts were a mix of admiration and challenge.
Rocky Rickaby. The name now carried a rhythm of its own.
The streets hummed softly with the low rumble of passing cars and the distant echo of a saxophone somewhere down the block. The city was still shaking off its hangover from the night before. Lacy walked with purpose, her heels clicking over the damp pavement. She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d come, curiosity, maybe. Or something quieter. The article hadn’t done the performance justice, she told herself. She needed to see for herself what that sound looked like in daylight. An old apartment building stood a few streets away from Little Daisy. Red brick that was cracked with time, ivy crawling up the side like it was trying to hide the damaged years. A few notes of a guitar spilled from an open window on the third floor, clumsy, tender, and searching of a voice. She had stopped beneath it, looking up. “Not bad for a night’s work,” she called out. Rocky stops at the call of the voice, blinking down to see Lacy in surprise. "Lacy? What are you- How'd you even find this place?" She smirked, "City's a small place when you listen for the right tune." Rocky shrugged. "Guess I just got lucky." 
"Luck is a lazy word," Lacy said, leaning a hand against the railing below him. "You came all the way here just to tell me that?"
"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe I came to see if you can truly show what you did to those folks." He smiled faintly, eyes softening. "Guess that's a way to find out." Without hesitation, Lacy had asked if she could come inside to see it face-to-face. Rocky nods to let her in.
Rocky had spent most of the afternoon pacing, tidying the same corners again and again. The small room still smelled faintly of coffee and wood polish. A single lamp cast a soft, golden hue across the space. His guitar rested on the couch, strings newly changed, polished to a quiet gleam. Then came a knock. Rocky's body froze mid-step, he ran a hand through his hair, and opened the door. Lacy stood there with her golden curls that were still bright. "Come in." She enters slowly, eyes weeping across the apartment, the stacks of music sheets, the half-finished coffee cups with syrup bottles that seemed to be empty, the scratched-up record player spinning something low and quiet. It wasn't glamorous, but it was real. "Messy. Honest." Lacy comments. Rocky laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. The first part, definitely.” She shrugs herself off. "So, what's the occasion? Or do you invite all of your bandmates over to impress them with charm and poor lighting?" Rocky grins, motioning to the couch. "Maybe just the ones who scare me a little." Lacy raised a brow, but said nothing to his comment. She sat, crossing her legs, eyes drifting towards the guitar. "You planning to play for me? Swoon me with whatever charisma you have?" Rocky chuckled at her joke. "Was thinkin' about it," he said, sitting across from her. "Been working on something since the show. Not done, but it's close." 
"Play it." Simply said. So he did. The room fell into a hush as his fingerpicking found a rhythm, slower, warmer than before. The melody wasn't grand or showy. It was quiet, intimate. The sound meant for one listener, not a crowd. Lacy leaned back, eyes softening. The tension between them changed from challenge to curiosity, from guarded to open. When he finished, she exhaled, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. "You wrote that for someone?" He looked at her, unsure how honest to be. “…Maybe I’m still figuring out who.” She tilted her head, studying him. “You don’t need to.” Silence lingered again. Not empty this time, but charged, full of unsaid things. Lacy stood slowly, walking over to his side. Her gaze fell to the sheet of music on the table. Half-finished notes and scribbled words. “You’re getting good at this, Rickaby.” He looked up at her, voice low. “I’m just learning how to listen.” A quiet laugh escaped Lacy. "To the world?" Rocky inhaled. "To you," he said, almost under his breath. For a heartbeat, her composure cracked. She looked away, pretending to study the guitar. "Careful, Rocky. You mix romance with rhythm, you might never come back from it." He smiled faintly. “Guess that’s the risk, huh?” The record player had reached the end of its side, the needle clicking softly in the quiet. Rain had whispered against the windows, steady and patient. Rocky looked at her, eyes searching. “You ever feel like… the music’s the only thing that really sees you?” Lacy’s gaze met his. “All the time.” He reached out, hesitated. His fingertips brushed hers, tentative, asking. She didn’t pull away. The clock ticked once. Twice. Lacy leaned in just enough that their foreheads touched, the world narrowing to the quiet of their breathing. Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Careful, Rickaby… some songs you don’t come back from.” Rocky smiled. In the stillness of time, they closed the space between them. It wasn't a hungry kiss, or even a confident one. It was uncertain, tender, like two notes trying to find harmony for the first time. When they finally parted, the rain outside had softened to a mist. Lacy lingered there, eyes half-closed, her hand still in his. Neither spoke. They didn't need to. Lacy drew a slow breath and began to hum. A low, wandering tune, half lullaby, half jazz refrain. It had no words, just a feeling that drifted through the room. Her arms stretched and wrapped around. Rocky blinked, caught off guard. "You know that one?" He asked softly. "Marvin Moon, 'Dancing with a picture'" Before he could reply, she stood, still humming, both hands gripped and were taken to the open space between the couch and the window. Her steps were slow, unhurried. No spotlight, no crowd. Only the rhythm she carried in her voice as the faint rain became their surroundings. Rocky followed clumsily at first, his shoes scuffing the worn rug. Lacy laughed quietly, the sound brushing close to his ear. "You can play a dozen chords, but you can't find a beat?" He grinned. "Guess I need a teacher for dancing." They swayed together, finding a rhythm that wasn’t quite dancing and wasn’t quite stillness either. Something softer in between. Lacy rested her head lightly against his shoulder. “Feels easier when the music’s this close,” she said. Rocky looked down at her, unsure whether to speak or just let the moment be what it was. He chose silence. She leaned in until he could feel her whisper against his lips.
For a heartbeat, the world held still—then the space disappeared, and they met halfway. The kiss was slow, searching, full of everything they hadn’t said. The room swayed with them, soft light and rain wrapping around the sound of two people finally finding the same rhythm.

Chapter Text

The Little Daisy slowly closes for the night. Down in the speakeasy, Atlas stands alone on the stage, where Rocky had played the night before he left. The faint smell of cigars and whiskey lingers like dead souls in the air. He runs his fingers along the bar counter, the symbol of his empire, but it feels colder tonight. The laughter that filled the place faded into whispers. The piano keys are dusted in gold, spotlighted by flickering lamps, but the beauty feels hollow. He then reflects on what "building something" really means, how people mistake control for a purpose. His dialogue or thoughts could sound like:
"You spend your life trying to make something out of noise, music, love, but the longer it plays, the less you hear yourself in it." He thinks about Mitzi, how her affection feels further away lately. He feels the distance, but doesn't place any blame on her; it's just how time erodes even the warmest touch. A glass cracked in his hand. Not from any force, it just gave out. He stares at the fracture, watching the blood drip on the counter with a few shards in it. Atlas pricked each shard from his hand, with more blood creating a trail like a river in the palm. "Everything breaks the same way. Quiet first." He said to himself. He glanced towards the door, as if expecting someone, but no one came across. He hears a faint hum of Rocky's guitar somewhere in the distance (or maybe it's just his memory of last night reflecting like a record). “Strange,” he muttered to himself, voice scratched by age and smoke. “You build a place to make people feel alive, and you end up the last one standing when the song’s over.” His reflection felt like standing in front of a mirror. Older or younger, carrying an ache, a constant awareness of something slipping away. Mitzi? Marriage? Keeping the business up? It was none of the three choices that had him thinking. The Little Daisy had been his dream once, a monument of gold in the dirt. Now, it was just another room of ghosts. He had turned to the door and paused. Outside, faint sirens moan in the cold night, somewhere far down the streets of St. Louis. The wind howls like wolves throughout alleyways, carrying it with a low hum of something familiar. A tune he couldn't piece together. Atlas stood for a long moment, staring at the door like he was expecting someone to walk through it. He exhaled, shoulders heavy like sandbags. The world outside of the speakeasy grew meaner in years. The streets carried a new kind of danger, one that was never announced until it was too late. Atlas knew that better than anyone he had ever met. Deals made. Promises broken. Enemies who smiled in daylight and slithered in the midnight. The front door opens without a sound. Mitzi stood there in her coat. Her expression was unreadable, neither cold nor warm, just tired. For a lingering moment, she didn't speak. She only stared. The faintest flicker of emotion crossed her face as Atlas's hands slowed down to his sides. “You ever notice,” he said softly, not looking up, “when a song’s about to end… You can always feel it before the last note?” Mitzi said nothing. She stepped inside, the door closing behind her with a quiet click. Atlas made his way back to the stage where the piano sat. Resting on the keys, the music faded into the hum of the lights. He looked up at her, and in his eyes, there was something unspoken. Not fear. Not regret. Just an understanding. The silence between them grew still. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed, and a voice barked something sharp. Then silence again. Atlas smiled faintly, almost to himself. "Guess the song's nearly over." Mitzi's lips parted, but the words never came out. The golden light above them flickered once, twice, then steadied. "I'll get the keys." Atlas coughed out. Following him outside of the speakeasy and up the stairs to the outside. The drive home was long, wrapped in winter fog. The city’s streetlights stretched in gold lines across the windshield, fading and reappearing as Atlas guided the car down the narrow roads. The engine’s hum was the only sound between them. 
Mitzi sat in the passenger seat, gloved hands folded neatly on her lap. The streetlamps caught her face in flashes, pale, calm, unreadable. She hadn’t said a word since they left the Little Daisy. Neither had he. Atlas glanced at her once, just once, then back to the road. He wanted to say something, maybe even sorry, but couldn’t find the right words. There never were any. “You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured finally. Mitzi looked out the window, watching the city blur past. “I could say the same for you.” He gave a small, tired smile. “Guess we’re both running out of things to say.” The silence that still followed wasn't cruel, just heavy. The sound of tires against wet pavement filled the space where their voices should've been. When they finally reached the house, Atlas parked but didn't get out. The porch light flickered weakly, struggling against the fog. Mitzi broke out of the silence first. “You shouldn’t stay out so late at the club anymore,” she said quietly. “It’s not safe. Not with… the way things have been.” Atlas nodded, though his eyes stayed forward. “I know.” She turned to look at him, her voice softening. “Do you?” 
"It's the only place I still feel like myself," he said. "When I'm there, I remember what it was all for. You, the Daisy, the music. It's all I've got left that makes sense to me. All I got to make me feel more awake every day." Her eyes softened. She reached out and rested her hand over his. “You’ve still got me, honey." 
"Yeah," he said, voice low. "I do." The world felt fragile like glass that might shatter if held too tightly. They went inside without another word. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that holds memories instead of peace. A faint record played from the corner, an old jazz tune, one of Mitzi's favorites. Atlas hung his coat and paused in the hallway, listening. The melody trembled, wavered slightly from the age of the record, like the sound itself was remembering itself. He turned toward her, watching her move through the faint lamplight. She looked weightless, almost untouchable, a woman half made of memory. “Do you ever think,” he asked softly, “that maybe we built too much around the music? Maybe it kept us together so long we forgot what silence sounded like.” Mitzi stopped in the doorway. Her voice was almost a whisper. “Silence is what’s left when the song ends, Atlas. It doesn’t mean it wasn’t beautiful while it lasted.” He nodded once, slow and distant...
With the clock passing by. Steam curled through the crack of the bathroom door, spilling into the dimly lit bedroom. The only light came from the lamp on the nightstand, casting long shadows over the floor. The water shut off. Mitzi stepped out, her body dripping with the remaining droplets. Wrapping herself in a towel, her hair was damp and clinging to her neck. Mitzi came out of the bathroom just to see Atlas on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, hands folded between his knees. The light caught the edge of his face, pale, distant, worn thin. His hat lay discarded on the floor beside his shoes. "Atlas?" she said softly. He didn't answer at first. The sound of the ticking clock filled the space between them. Finally, he spoke, voice low and hoarse. "Couldn't sleep."Mitzi crossed the room slowly, each step soft against the carpet. The air felt colder here. Her towel was still wrapped around. She sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat of his shoulder, but not touching. "You've been quiet all night," she murmured. "Even during the ride." He sighed with short breath. "Just thinking. That's all I ever seem to do anymore with my life." Mitzi studied his facial expression. The man beside her didn't look like the one who once commanded a room with a glance. His hands trembled slightly, his eyes unfocused, staring past the walls. "You're scaring me, honey," she whispered. "Don't be. It's just... everything's catching up, that's all." Mitzi reached out, hesitated, then placed her hand gently on his arm. His skin was cold. He didn't move away. Not even a single inch flinched. "Promise me," she said quietly. "You'll come home early tomorrow."  "I promise." Mitzi gave a peck on the cheek. Turning back to the bathroom to change and dry off her hair, when she looked back, Atlas was still sitting there, staring at the floor, as if he could see himself as a ghost. 
The house was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the ticking clock on the wall. Night pressed against the windows, turning the glass into dark mirrors. 
Atlas was already dressed back up when Mitzi came into the kitchen, coat buttoned, hat in his hand. He looked almost put together. "Going out somewhere?" she asked, her voice questioning his attire. "Just need to clear my head. Won't be long." Mitzi folded her arms, searching his face for something she couldn't name. "It's late, honey. Can't it wait until the morning?"  His voice then dropped with a crunch to it. "Some things can't." For a moment, neither of them moved. The clock struck eleven. Each chime filled the room with a hollow echo. Mitzi stepped closer, resting a hand on his chest. She could feel the heartbeat beneath, steady, but strained. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” she whispered. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, the gesture gentle but distant, like muscle memory. “Always,” he murmured. He turned toward the door. His hand lingered on the handle longer than it should have. The wind outside caught the porch light, making it flicker. Mitzi stood frozen as he stepped out into the cold. The door closed softly behind him, not a slam, not even a creak. Just a hush. She watched from the window as he walked down the street, his figure slowly swallowed by fog. A faint light from the corner lamppost washed over him for a heartbeat, then disappeared.  
The city was restless that night. Rain fell in thin, whispering sheets, tracing silver lines down the brick walls of the alleyways. St. Louis hummed in its sleepless rhythm, a few bars still open, a few deals still being made in the dark. Atlas moved through it all like a shadow among others. His coat collar turned up, hat pulled low, walking the narrow street toward the glow of a half-dead lamppost. Each step had echoed against the wet pavement. He stopped beneath the light and reached into his coat for a cigarette. The flame from his match flickered against his face, a brief glint of gold in the dark. "Didn't think you'd actually show," a voice said from the shadows. Atlas’s hand froze mid-motion.
He turned his head slightly, enough to see movement. “You called,” he said quietly. “Figured I’d better.” The voice laughed, soft, humorless. "You were always too trusting." Atlas smiled faintly, the kind of smile that knew too much. “Or maybe just too tired to care.”The wind carried a low rumble of thunder from somewhere far off. The lamppost flickered once, dimming to a sickly orange. A second voice joins in the first, quieter, sharper, almost a whisper. Then silence. Atlas exhales, the cigarette between his fingers untouched. For a moment, the world held still like a statue, the rain suspended, the city holding its breath. Then came another sound, not a voice, not a step, but a rattle and a click. The object had shone in the dark, like venom eyes that possess the soul. Atlas sped up his walking to his car to leave and go back home with Mitzi. The lamplight flared bright and went out. A few seconds later, only the rain remained, with just a flood of different colors. Not bright, but darker.



The Morning
Morning light crept slowly through the blinds, pale and indifferent. The Little Daisy was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t belong in a place built on rhythm and laughter. Mitzi sat at her vanity, brushing her hair in long, slow strokes. The mirror reflected a woman who looked like her, same curls, same painted lips, but the eyes belonged to someone else. Someone older. Someone was waiting for something she didn’t want to hear. The landline rang. It startled her, a single shrill note in the stillness. She stared for a moment before answering, her hand trembling slightly. "Hello?" Nothing but static on the other end, a faint crackle of breathing falling on the speaker. Then, with a voice, low, strained, almost unwilling to speak. "Mrs. May. It's about Atlas..." The words came out fragmented after that. She couldn’t tell if the man on the line was stuttering or if her own heartbeat drowned him out. The words shot and alleyway, and gone bled together until they didn’t mean anything. "No," she whispered. "No, he was... he just left last night..." But the voice didn’t stop. It went on, apologizing, explaining, offering details that felt too sharp to be real. Mitzi’s hand slipped from the receiver. The phone swung by its cord, the steady hum of the disconnected line filling the room like a heartbeat fading away. She never moved, not right away. The vanity mirror stared back at her, and for the first time, she didn’t recognize the woman in it at all. The door behind her opened. Ivy, Zib, and Rocky stood there, their expression gray and heavy. None of them spoke. They didn't have to. Mitzi rose from her seat, unsteady but composed. The kind of composure that comes not from calm but from shock. "Where is he?" She asked quietly. Rocky's ears lowered. "The police... they've already taken him." She nodded once, her lips parting, but no sound came out. Her hand found the edge of the vanity table and gripped it hard, knuckles whitening. Mitzi closed her eyes. The world tilted slightly, then steadied. “Get everyone together,” she said softly. “The Daisy won’t close tonight.”