Where the Silence Still Sings

And if there’s any justice left in this world, maybe this letter finds you, wherever you are.

The studio was silent. Dust drifted like fireflies through the sun-streaked air. Once, this space had been filled with the frantic energy of creation: demos blaring, laughter echoing, Chester’s voice slicing through the quiet like lightning.

Now, only ghosts remained.

Mike sat at the old keyboard. He hadn’t touched it in years.

His fingers hovered over the keys — trembling, unsure. The weight of a thousand unsaid things pressed into his shoulders. He played a single note. It rang out, raw and cracked, the sound of something unfinished.

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded letter. The paper was creased, tear-stained, some of the ink blurred by months of guilt. He held it like a wound.

“This was what I wanted to say to you,” he whispered. “But I couldn’t manage to say what mattered.”

He opened the letter.

“Chester,

It’s been years now. And still, your voice echoes louder than all of us.

We thought we had to move forward. We thought it’s what you would have wanted. But I know better now. I know what I let happen. And I can’t lie to myself anymore.

You told me you were scared. You told me she was watching everything. You told me you didn’t feel safe in your own home. And I… I didn’t listen. Or maybe I did. And I was too much of a coward to act.

They threatened me too, you know. They told me if I didn’t help rebrand the band, if I didn’t play along, they’d ruin us. That I’d never see my family again. That your name would be trashed.

So I kept my head down. I let them push me onstage beside her, pretending it was all my idea. I let them twist your songs into their puppet show.

And every time I saw her wear your grief like a designer coat, I died a little more.

But I stayed silent. Until now.

Emily is the problem. The mask. The voice of the machine.

And now I know, so is Talinda.

She told you she’d ruin you if you left her. She made you feel like a monster for wanting out. And when you started fighting back… suddenly you were in rehab again. Suddenly you were “unstable”.

I should have stood by you. I should have burned the whole damn industry down for you.

But I didn’t.

And now you’re gone.

The label — and the cult — says I can’t speak on it. That I’m legally bound. But I don’t care anymore.

You deserve truth.

You deserve vengeance.

You deserve peace.

And if there’s any justice left in this world, maybe this letter finds you, wherever you are.

Please, forgive me.

I never stopped loving you. Not for one second.

— Mike”

Mike stared at the keys of the keyboard.

The air shifted. Slightly warmer.

And then — a whisper. A breeze without wind. A hum without source.

He didn’t need to turn. He felt Chester there.

Not in a vision. Not in a sound. In the ache behind his ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

No voice answered.

But a second note played on the keyboard.

Soft. Gentle. Forgiving.

“In time…” he said, tears pouring down his face. “please — forgive me.”

Silence.

And then…

The faintest breeze ruffled the letter’s edge.

And Mike smiled through the tears.

Maybe, just maybe…

Chester heard him.