The motel balcony rail dug into Josie’s forearms as she leaned over it, cigarette burning slow between her fingers, ash threatening to fall with every restless tap. California felt wrong, too warm, too bright, too… clean. Nothing like Seattle. Nothing like the damp, gray weight that used to sit in her chest like it belonged there. Down below, Kyson was arguing with Ethan over something stupid, timing, probably. It was always timing. Always something just slightly off, like the three of them were trying to outrun a sound that had already died. Grunge was dead. Everyone kept saying it like it was fact, like it hadn’t raised them. Now it was all distortion and anger and pretty girls screaming over piano lines, labels eating that shit up like it was brand new.

Josie flicked the ash over the railing, watching it disappear into the parking lot glow. “Guess we’re right on time,” she muttered under her breath, though it didn’t feel like it. The door behind her creaked open, and she didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. There was a certain kind of quiet that came with him, heavy, but not uncomfortable. Like feedback humming just beneath a track, barely noticeable unless you knew what to listen for. “You ever think about going back?” she asked, eyes still fixed on the street instead of him. Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. “Or is this it now?” She finally glanced over her shoulder, studying him for half a second—long enough to read something in his face, not long enough to let him catch her doing it. Josie turned back toward the city, taking one last drag before crushing the cigarette against the railing. “‘Cause if this is it,” she added, quieter now, almost to herself, “we better make it loud enough they don’t forget us when the next thing rolls in.”