The city had settled into evening by the time I left the bar. Storefronts glowed softly against the darkening street. Office workers hurried toward buses and train stations. Somewhere nearby, somebody was selling grilled food from a cart. The smell drifted through the air and followed me for half a block.
The elementary school sat twenty minutes away on foot. I started walking. Henry's question lingered. How'd you end up here? The answer should have been simple.
Work. Bills. Rent. Survival.
Instead I found myself thinking about a music shop. It had been almost a year ago. Back when I still believed resumes solved problems.
The music shop sat three neighborhoods away from the elementary school. I'd noticed it a week earlier while walking home. Not because I needed a music shop. Because of the sign.
NOW HIRING.
The words hung crookedly in the front window between a display of acoustic guitars and a keyboard that had probably seen better decades. Normally I would've taken the train home. That week, normal had become expensive. Rent was due. The train fare was suddenly competing with food. Walking won.
The sign stayed in my memory. A week later, I found myself standing beneath it with a folded resume in one hand. The bell above the door chimed softly when I stepped inside.
The store smelled faintly of wood polish, cardboard, and old amplifiers. Guitars lined the walls. Drumsticks sat in plastic containers near the register. Rows of sheet music occupied an entire corner. Somewhere overhead, a song played quietly through aging speakers.
Not loud enough to demand attention. Just present. Like background weather. An employee stood behind the counter sorting invoices. "Can I help you?"
I held up the resume. "The sign."
The employee looked relieved. Not because I was applying. Because I wasn't asking about guitar repairs. Apparently that happened often. "Oh. Right."
The resume disappeared into their hands. At first they skimmed it. Then they slowed down. The expression changed. Only slightly. A tiny hesitation. A pause. The sort people made when they already knew the answer but hadn't decided how politely to deliver it.
The employee flipped to the second page.
Bakery Assistant.
Kitchen Helper.
School Cleaner.
Construction Laborer.
Farm Hand.
Warehouse Sorter.
Dishwasher.
Market Porter.
Three months.
Six months.
Four months.
Two months.
Every job temporary.
Every job practical.
None of them particularly related to music retail. The employee's smile returned. Smaller this time. Professional. "I'll get the manager."
I nodded. The words translated easily. We'll call you. The manager simply hadn't arrived to say them yet. The employee disappeared through a door at the back of the shop.
Unfortunately for another customer, they weren't the only person waiting for management. Near the counter, a man in a worn denim jacket was holding a packet of guitar strings and looking personally offended by its existence. "Twelve dollars."
The employee stopped. "Yes."
"Twelve dollars."
"Still yes."
The man held up the packet. "They're strings."
"They're guitar strings."
"They were seven dollars last year."
"They were ten dollars last year."
"Which was already suspicious."
The employee closed their eyes. The way people did when they had survived this exact conversation before. "I'll get the manager."
The man nodded. "Excellent." Then added: "Tell them they're thieves."
The employee disappeared without responding. The man seemed pleased with this outcome. I wandered toward the keyboards. There wasn't much else to do. The digital piano sat near the front window. Sunlight spilled across the keys. A few fingerprints lingered on the glossy surface.
The song playing through the speakers drifted overhead. Something familiar. Not because I knew it. Because I'd heard it before. Somewhere. Maybe on the radio. Maybe in a grocery store. Maybe passing a café. I couldn't remember. The melody lingered anyway. I sat down. Pressed a key. Then another. The melody appeared slowly beneath my fingers. Not perfectly. Just enough. The song wasn't complicated. At least not on the surface. Most people probably remembered the chorus. I liked the spaces between them. The parts where the melody seemed uncertain. Like it wanted to say something and wasn't sure how. A voice arrived from behind me. "You're a little young to know that one."
I looked up. The man with the guitar strings stood a few feet away. The packet remained in one hand. The expression remained skeptical.
"I don't."
The man's eyebrows rose. "You were just playing it."
"I know."
"Then how do you not know it?"
I looked back at the keys. The melody waited. "I've heard it before."
"That's not the same thing."
"No."
The man folded his arms. "Then why that song?"
I considered the question. The answer wasn't complicated. "I like how it sounds."
The man nodded slowly. Not impressed. Not convinced. "How does it sound?"
I played a few notes. The melody moved forward. Paused. Moved again. "It sounds like somebody trying to leave."
The man's expression changed slightly. Not much. Just enough. "Leave what?"
I shrugged. "Something important."
Silence. The song continued through the store speakers. A guitar joined the melody. Then disappeared again. The man looked at the keyboard. I looked at the keyboard. The conversation seemed perfectly content to stay there. Then I added: "The lyrics make it sadder."
That got his attention. "You know the lyrics?"
"A little."
The man waited. I searched for the words. The music helped. The melody already knew what I meant. "The music sounds like somebody already left."
My fingers brushed another note. "The lyrics sound like they're standing there pretending they didn't."
The store became very quiet. Not silent. Just listening. The man looked away first. Toward the guitars. Toward the front window. Toward the street outside. For a moment, he seemed much older than before. Not physically. Just tired. The kind of tired people carried for years. The manager chose that exact moment to arrive.
Perfect timing. "Alex Reyes?"
I stood. The manager offered a practiced smile. The sort that had probably delivered both good news and bad news often enough to stop distinguishing between them.
"Thank you for applying." I already knew. "We're looking for someone with a little more relevant experience."
The smile remained. "Retail." A pause.
"Administrative work." Another pause.
"Customer-facing environments." The resume was returned. Carefully. Politely. The rejection arrived wrapped in professional language and good intentions. It still arrived. "We'll keep your resume on file."
Nobody had ever called from a file. "Thank you."
The manager relaxed slightly. Difficult conversation completed. Then noticed the man beside the keyboards. "Oh. Sir. About the guitar strings—"
"Too expensive."
"They're twelve dollars."
"Exactly."
The manager stared. The man stared back. Neither appeared willing to surrender. The conversation continued behind me as I headed for the door. The bell chimed overhead. I was halfway outside when a voice called after me. "Hey."
I turned. The man stood in the doorway holding the packet of guitar strings. Apparently he'd lost the argument. Or won it. With him, it was difficult to tell. "You like music?"
I hesitated. Then answered honestly. "I like listening."
Something about that seemed to satisfy him. He nodded once. Then turned and started walking. "Come on."
I blinked. "Where?"
"Just..."
The answer somehow felt less helpful than saying nothing. Still, I followed. The conversation felt unfinished.
The afternoon had started slipping toward evening. Traffic rolled steadily through the streets. Store owners swept sidewalks. Delivery trucks occupied spaces they legally shouldn't have. The man carried the guitar strings in one hand and a cardboard box in the other. Neither appeared particularly heavy. "You never answered my question."
I looked over.
"I did."
"No."
He crossed the street without breaking stride. "You said you like listening."
"That's the answer."
"That's not an answer."
I wasn't entirely sure there was a difference. The man sighed. The sound suggested this was a recurring problem. "Most people say they like music."
"I do."
"Then why say listening?"
I thought about it. The city moved around us. A bus groaned to a stop. Somebody laughed from a nearby café. A motorcycle passed with an exhaust system that sounded deeply unhappy about something. "My father used to say people hear music backwards."
The man glanced sideways. That got his attention. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know." The answer was honest. "My father said a lot of things."
The man nodded. As though that explained everything. Oddly enough, it did. We walked half a block before he spoke again. "The song."
I looked up. "What about it?"
"What made you think it was about somebody leaving?"
I considered the question.
The answer lived somewhere inside the melody. Trying to explain it felt like trying to describe a smell. Difficult. Possible. Probably inaccurate.
"The beginning sounds certain." The man remained quiet. "The middle doesn't."
A few more steps. "The song keeps moving forward." I searched for the words. "Then it hesitates."
The man looked ahead. Not at me. "People hesitate."
"Exactly."
The answer escaped before I realized it. A smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. Small. Brief. Gone a moment later. "The lyrics sound different."
"Different how?"
"The lyrics are still talking."
The traffic light changed. People started crossing. We joined them. "The music already knows the answer."
The man stopped walking. Only for a second. Then continued. The silence lasted almost half a block. Long enough that I wondered if I'd said something strange. Then: "That's an unusual thing to hear."
"I hear lots of unusual things."
"I've noticed."
We turned onto a narrower street. Older buildings. Fewer people. The city felt quieter here. Not silent. Just less hurried. The man adjusted the box beneath one arm. "Can you carry boxes?"
I stared. "What?"
"Can you carry boxes?"
"Usually."
"Usually isn't a yes."
"Yes."
The man nodded. "Do you drink?"
The question arrived so suddenly that I genuinely thought I'd misheard it. "What?"
"Do you drink?"
"Water." The man closed his eyes briefly. "Good enough."
I wasn't sure that had been the correct answer. Apparently it was. He started walking again. I followed automatically. Mostly because the conversation still felt unfinished.
Outside, evening traffic moved steadily through the city. Streetlights flickered awake one by one as daylight slowly surrendered. The man adjusted the box against one hip. "Can you count?"
"Mostly."
He stopped walking. "Mostly?"
"I've done inventory before."
"That's not counting."
"It's counting adjacent."
The man laughed. Actually laughed. The sound surprised both of us. Then he continued walking. "Can you show up on time?"
I considered lying. "Sometimes." Another laugh. Shorter this time. "But honest."
We crossed another street. I still had no idea where we were going. The man seemed perfectly comfortable with that. A block later he asked: "You need work?"
The question landed differently from the others. Less casual. More important. "Yes."
The answer came immediately. The man nodded. Like he'd expected it. "Good."
I waited. "Good what?"
He pointed ahead. Toward a narrow staircase tucked behind an old laundry shop. A staircase leading underground. "You can carry those boxes downstairs."
I looked at the box. Then the stairs. Then him. "That's the interview?"
The man thought about it. "No." A pause. "The interview was the song."
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. The man adjusted the box against his side. "And this part is because my back hurts."
For the first time all afternoon, I laughed. The man looked pleased with himself. Which, judging from the expression, happened often. "Come on," he said, heading toward the stairs. "Let's see if you can count better than Owen."
"Who's Owen?"
The man sighed. The sigh of someone already regretting a future conversation. "Exactly.
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