Page 145 of The Sound Between Us

37

abbey road

Seren

If ghosts exist, they live here. In the scuffed floorboards. The weight of silence between takes. The way even the air seems tuned to a key you can’t quite place.

Abbey Road isn’t just famous. It’s haunted. Not the spooky kind, with creaking doors and sheeted spirits, but the creative kind. Every wall hums with what’s come before. McCartney. Winehouse. Bowie.

And now I’m standing in the middle of Studio Two trying not to puke into my coffee. Outside spring has finally found London. It’s May, the trees are pinked and blushing, leaves unfurling, vibrant with life. Inside of me, a long hard frost is refusing to thaw.

“Just you for now?” The studio tech asks—early twenties, sharp haircut. His eyes flick away when I look at him, then back again.

“Just me. Mark’s on his way from the airport.”

He nods, fidgets with some settings on the board, and leaves me alone to “settle in.”

I don’t. I can’t.

This isn’t like the shop. There’s no dust to wipe, no stacks to alphabetise, no Simon to distract me with chaos and gossip magazines. This is just me and a piano and the thudding truth that I have no idea what I’m doing here.

My stomach churns.

The door swings open behind me.

“Bloody hell, it’s freezing out there.” A familiar voice, warm and West Coast mellow, slices through the air. “I forgot how miserable Britain can be when it’s pretending it’s spring.”

I turn. Mark’s comfortingly the same—low-slung jeans, lived-in hoodie, five-day stubble, eyes too kind. He smells faintly of jet lag and peppermint gum.

“You made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He dumps his backpack by the soundboard and walks over, offering a hand that turns into a brief, grounding hug. “How’re you holding up?”

“I’m fine.”

He gives me a look that makes it clear he knows I’m lying. Doesn’t push, though. Just gestures to the piano in the centre of the room.

“You been writing?”

“I’ve been avoiding.”

“At least you’re honest. That’s step one.”

He drops into the producer’s chair like he owns the place, already flicking through settings and loading a blank session on the screen. His fingers move fast, confident.

“I don’t know what I want this to be. I don’t even know if I want this at all.”

Mark leans back, arms behind his head, like we’ve got all the time in the world. “You don’t have to know yet. You just have to play.”

I sit at the piano. My fingers hover above the keys. I can feel my whole life backing up behind them. Every song I ever hated, every silence I ever filled with someone else’s sound. Every time I told myself it was safer to stay hidden.

I press the first chord.

It’s imperfect. A little raw. But it’s mine.

And for the first time in years, I don’t flinch from the sound.

We eat lunch on the floor. Mark claims it’s a “vibe” thing. Personally, I think it’s just because the couch smells vaguely like Durex and coffee.