Elias sat on the dusty attic floor, the blue light of the ancient laptop illuminating the tears tracking through the grime on his face. He realized the song wasn’t a demo for a band or a hobby. It was a message. The date on the file was October 12th, the night before the accident.
“The clocks are ticking louder than my heart tonight,” his father sang, his voice cracking on the high notes. “And I’m scared that if I blink, I’ll wake up and you’ll be taller than me, and I’ll be just a ghost in a frame.”
Elias froze. The voice wasn’t his mother’s. It was deep, rasping, and full of a nervous energy he hadn’t heard in twenty years. It was his father.
Elias frowned. He didn’t recognize the title as a song his mother liked. Curiosity won out. He double-clicked.
There was no music at first—only the faint, rhythmic hiss of a recording made in a room that wasn’t soundproofed. Then, a guitar strummed—clunky and unpolished.
His father had died when Elias was six. To Elias, the man was a collection of still photos and third-party stories. He was a "hero," a "good man," a "hard worker." He wasn't a person who played the guitar badly in a basement.