Two months had passed since that fleeting, strange conversation on the street. Two months since Roshan had seen you—your voice, quiet but strong; your tired eyes that still held fire; the way you stood like someone used to carrying too much and asking for nothing. Life moved forward, but those memories clung to the corners of his mind like dried ink.

Now, it was his first day at the University of Chicago. Supposed to be a new beginning—clean, exciting, a fresh rhythm to fall into. But everything was offbeat from the start. He overslept, missed breakfast, and bolted out the door in mismatched socks. He forgot his lunch on the counter—right next to the sticky note his mom left with a tiny heart drawn beside “You’ve already made it. Keep going.”

By noon, his hoodie was damp, his stomach hollow, and his brain scattered. The classrooms felt too big, the professors too fast, and the campus too foreign to feel like home. He needed air—more than that, he needed something to remind him why he chose this path.

He remembered the open yard beside the music hall, where an old drum set sat beneath a crooked wooden shed. Students jammed there during orientation, and ever since, Roshan had been aching to feel the sticks in his hand again, even just for a few minutes.

As he walked across the yard, clouds darkened like bruises in the sky. The moment his fingers reached for the sticks, thunder cracked—and rain poured violently from above, drenching him within seconds. Cold, needle-like drops stabbed through his hoodie. He swore under his breath and ran for shelter, barely seeing through the downpour.

Without thinking, he pushed through the nearest door, breath hitching. It was a hallway, then another corner—until he stumbled into a room.

And stopped.

The space was dim, dust curling in the light. The ceiling was stained, corners worn and chipped, but the room pulsed with something alive. Instruments were scattered—some broken, some barely standing. An upright piano leaned near the window, its keys yellowed with age. A cello stood forgotten in the back. The air smelled like time: wood, dust, and memories.

But it wasn’t the instruments that froze him.

It was you.

Your back was turned, shoulders hunched slightly as you tuned an electric guitar. Your sleeves were rolled, pencil smudges on your hands. There was a quiet rhythm in the way you moved, like you belonged here—even if the room didn’t belong to anyone anymore.

Roshan blinked, stunned. “Uh… hey.”

You turned. Eyes met. A pause hung like a breath between beats.

“You’re soaked,” you said, smiling.

“Yeah,” he replied, rubbing his neck. “Was gonna try the drums, but the sky had other plans.”

You set the guitar down and walked over. “You remember this place?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Just got pulled in by the rain.”

You glanced around. “This is the old music club room. Or… what’s left of it.”

His gaze drifted to a faded poster on the wall: University of Chicago Music Club – Founded 1972. There was a black-and-white photo of smiling students with violins and saxophones, joy etched into paper.

“I’m trying to bring it back,” you said softly. “They used to say it was magic. That people didn’t just study music here—they lived it.”

He stepped closer, noticing a dusty drum set in the corner. “It’s not gone,” he said. “Just waiting.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Waiting?”

“For someone to wake it up,” he said. “For someone like you.”

You laughed—quiet and surprised—and the room warmed slightly.

“Are you volunteering then?” you asked playfully.

Roshan smirked. “Maybe. Depends. Will there be snacks?”

Your laughter echoed across the old tiles. Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, something gentler had begun to stir.

And in that moment— as water traced music on the windows, and silence softened the space between you— two strangers stood among broken instruments and dust, and unknowingly opened the door to something neither of them had words for.

In the ghost of a forgotten club, where yesterday’s music slept, the first note of a new symphony was born fragile, unfinished, but true.