CHAPTER 1: FIRST RECORD
1534 Words
Solene Mae Wren has never sung outside her bedroom walls. Her voice isn’t raised for audiences or applause—it’s reserved for dishwashing concerts, late-night harmonies with her humidifier, and dramatic performances to her cat. For her, music is holy and alone. Like brushing your teeth, but for the soul.
But tonight? Tonight, she vibrates with chaotic energy.
She has just tried and failed spectacularly to write a new chapter of her manuscript. Now she paces her room like a caffeinated ghost, dramatically stressed, dressed in her ugliest pajama pants (with tiny suns on them, ironically), muttering about plot holes and character arcs like a Shakespearean villain.
She can’t even write a single chapter tonight, not even a paragraph. Her brain feels like it’s been wrung out like a damp towel, and all the words have fallen somewhere under the couch with the missing socks. She’s mentally drained and emotionally done. Even her face feels tired, like it wants to file for temporary leave from all expressions.
Then she catches sight of herself in the mirror.
She stares at her face. Everyone always says she has a quiet beauty. Which, in her opinion, is just a fancy way of saying, “You’re cute, but like… introverted.” Still, people tend to look twice. Maybe it’s the dark hair that falls in waves, or the braid she can never do quite right but pretends is artsy. Her curls often curl like they’re eavesdropping on her thoughts, leaning in to listen. Her skin is pale but glowing—“book girl ethereal,” as her one friend puts it, and her hazel eyes have that whole wistful-but-knows-how-to-use-a-library-card vibe.
She leans closer to the mirror, narrows her eyes.
“Okay, Solene. You look like a sad woodland creature who just dropped her quill in a puddle. But you’re still… passable.”
Her gaze softens. There’s something melodic in the way her thoughts move. Anyone can tell she spends her days with stories. Her fingers bear faint traces of ink, pastel, and possibly chocolate. Her outfits never match Pinterest boards, but she wears soft linen like it’s her religion—and somehow, she never looks like she’s trying. Which, of course, makes her cooler than she intends.
She leans back from the mirror dramatically, just as thunder rumbles outside. It isn’t scary thunder. It’s moody, romantic thunder. Like the sky is rolling its eyes in slow motion. She doesn’t flinch. She simply exhales as if the weather is part of her emotional arc.
The rain hasn’t started, but it hovers on the edge of the atmosphere like a dramatic soundtrack waiting for a cue.
Her eyes drift to the window. Her fingers hover over her phone, making that little doodle motion she always does when she’s mentally spiraling. Her drafts look back at her from the desk like passive-aggressive roommates.
Then she recalls she wants to sing tonight. But not for anyone. Not for validation. Just to let something out before she explodes into a glittery stress cloud.
She remembers her friend once mentioning an app for singing anonymously. EchoVerse. She types it into the app store.
The tagline reads: "Sing. Mix. Belong."
She snorts.
"Belong? Babe, I barely belong in my own genre."
Still, she downloads it.
Thirty minutes later, she has a mic arm balanced on a stack of sketchbooks, her cat glaring at her from under the couch, and a randomly assigned username blinking on her screen: EchoSeeker1023.
Perfect. No one will know it’s her.
She isn’t planning a performance. Just… noise therapy.
She clicks through the top uploads. Some singers sound like angels. Others sound like breakups and wine. One sounds like a vacuum in emotional distress. It’s… weirdly comforting.
She laughs. Out loud. Alone.
"Did you hear that?" she asks her cat. "Do you think they're singers? No?"
Her cat just stares at her. She stops laughing. Her cat might not want to disturb her.
Then she hits Record Solo.
Her breath trembles. Her finger hovers. She makes that weird throat noise that happens before you cry or sing, or sneeze.
And she begins.
The song: Still With Me, an old college favorite. Her version? Soft, low, wrapped in that “I didn’t warm up because I’m not auditioning for Broadway, I’m healing” tone.
She doesn’t belt. She barely whispers.
She remembers.
At the end, she whispers, almost too quietly to catch, “This isn’t for anyone. Just for the echo.”
And she hits Upload.
No filters. No title. No overthinking. Just vibes.
Then she makes tea. With honey. Because drama. And for once, she feels a little less like imploding.
A week passes.
She ignores the app like an ex who still owes her money.
She doesn’t expect anything magical to happen the night she uploads Still With Me.
Honestly? She isn’t even sure why she sings it.
It’s 1:07 AM. She’s supposed to be asleep. Her manuscript is open on her laptop, blinking with passive-aggressive judgment.
A single line stares at her:
Chapter Eleven: They fall apart softly.
She hasn’t written a word under it. Typical.
Instead, she’s wandered over to EchoVerse, her new favorite low-stakes rebellion. She calls it “emotional karaoke with consequences.”
She’s half-laughing at a fan comment ("You sound like a sad cupcake!! ilysm") when a red notification dot appears on her feed.
Your track “Still With Me” has been remixed.
Solene blinks.
“Excuse me?” she whispers to no one.
She hasn’t tagged it. Hasn’t even added a proper title image. It’s raw. Awkward. Slightly pitchy in the second chorus, if she’s being honest (and she always is, to herself, tragically).
She taps the notification.
And sees it.
Remixed by: Slush
Caption: Echoes find each other
Duration: 4:16
The play button glows gently, like a dare.
“Slush?” she mouths. “Like... frozen beverage Slush?”
She’s never heard of him. The username feels quiet. Humble. Not the usual @VibeKing1999 nonsense she usually encounters. No photo. No tags. Just the title and that soft little line.
Her thumb hovers over play.
She doesn’t know what to expect. A harmony, maybe. Or some overly earnest piano track laid underneath her whisper-cry vocals. Something experimental and slightly cringe.
Instead—
She hears breath.
Not just hers—his.
His voice enters like smoke curling through a half-closed door. No announcement. No flourish. Just presence. A hush that wraps around her, not like a spotlight, but like a blanket.
Her melody is untouched. He doesn’t fix her.
He joins her.
And it is...
Beautiful.
Painfully so.
He doesn’t overpower. He doesn’t show off. His harmony slips beneath her notes, brushing against them with such respect it makes her eyes sting. There’s a moment on the bridge—her voice faltering slightly—where his voice rises just enough to hold it up. Just enough to say, I hear you.
Solene presses a hand to her chest.
“Who are you, Slush?” she whispers.
The duet ends in silence.
No grand finale. No key change. Just shared stillness.
She replays it.
Twice.
Then, on the third listen, she puts on her studio headphones. The good ones. The ones she reserves for editing and crying.
It’s like hearing her own heart for the first time—echoed back by someone who somehow understands.
She blinks. Her soul does a little pirouette of panic.
Slush.
What did you just do?
She isn’t even sure how the duet feature works. Did she accidentally make it a duet set up?
She clicks the track again...
His voice.
Low. Warm. Not flashy, but devastating. Like cinnamon wrapped in velvet regret. He doesn’t sing over her—he weaves into her. His harmony catches hers like a safety net. When she trembles, he steadies. When she hesitates, he waits. The blend is so good, it makes her knees consider retiring.
She gasps. Like, actual dramatic gasp.
Her cat flees the room. Again.
She pauses the track and whispers to the screen, “I’m sorry—SIR?”
Then she hits replay. Multiple times. Possibly unhealthy.
She scrolls his profile. Two uploads. A vague profile pic. No bio. Who are you, Slush? Are you a ghost? Are you married to music? Should I also marry music and live in a forest with my feelings??
She zooms in on his profile photo like it holds the secrets of the universe. It doesn’t.
Still, she feels it.
That musical connection.
She flops back on her bed, sighs at the ceiling like it owes her something, and whispers, “I’m emotionally compromised by a username.”
Then she gives herself a reality check.
"Solene. Calm down. It’s a duet, not a marriage proposal. You’re fine. Breathe. Drink water. Touch grass."
But the truth is, her song doesn’t feel like hers anymore. It feels like a harmony.
And under his remix, his caption reads, “Echoes find each other.”
Wow.
She doesn’t want to reply.
Not yet.
She doesn’t know him. She doesn’t know his face, his story, or why his voice makes her heart do somersaults.
But she does know one thing.
She’s going to sing again.
- Writer
