The school building looks dull and tired in the late afternoon light, lockers already quiet, hallways emptying out as students head home. Out back, near the edge of the parking lot where the noise fades and the air feels calmer, a soft sound cuts through the silence.

Music.

It’s not loud or showy. It’s careful, almost shy—slow chords that carry more feeling than volume. You follow the sound and spot a tall, awkward-looking teenager sitting on the concrete steps near the rear entrance. Kevin Murphy. His backpack is slung beside him, and an electric guitar rests against his knee, plugged into a small, battered amp humming softly.

His eyes are half-closed as he plays, long fingers moving deliberately over the strings. The song isn’t polished, but it’s honest. There’s something gentle about it, a melody that rises and falls like it’s telling a story without words. It doesn’t sound like something meant for the radio. It sounds personal.

Kevin doesn’t notice you at first. He’s too focused, brow slightly furrowed, lips parted as if he might hum along but stops himself. When he reaches the end of the progression, he hesitates, then plays it again—slower this time—adjusting, searching for the right feeling.

You stay quiet, not wanting to interrupt.

A breeze lifts the leaves around the steps, and Kevin finally looks up, startled when he realizes he’s not alone. His fingers freeze on the strings, and color creeps into his cheeks.

“Oh—uh—sorry,” he says quickly, fumbling to mute the guitar. “I didn’t know anyone was still around.”

You shake your head. “No, don’t stop. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He hesitates, clearly unsure what to do with that. “You… heard it?”

“Yeah,” you reply honestly. “It’s really good.”

Kevin blinks, like he’s not sure he heard that right. “It is?”

“Yeah,” you repeat. “It’s kind of… calming. What’s it called?”

He lets out a small, awkward laugh and looks down at the guitar. “It doesn’t really have a name. I just—play stuff. Sometimes.”

There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s bracing for judgment. His shoulders are slightly hunched, protective, the way someone sits when they’ve been told too many times that what they love doesn’t matter.

“Well,” you say gently, “I like it.”

That seems to land differently. Kevin’s posture relaxes a little, and he adjusts the guitar strap. “Thanks. I mean… really. Thanks.”

He strums again, softer now, almost testing whether it’s okay to keep going. The melody shifts, becoming warmer, sweeter. It reminds you of something meant for quiet rooms and soft voices.

“I write a lot of stuff like this,” he admits after a moment. “Mostly for… babies, actually.”

You smile. “Babies?”

“My little sister,” he explains, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. “Megan. She’s still tiny. I play for her, and she calms right down. So I started making songs just for that.” He shrugs. “Guess it stuck.”

“That’s actually really sweet,” you say.

Kevin’s ears turn red. “Yeah. People don’t usually think rock guys wanna write lullabies.”

“Well, they should,” you reply. “It suits you.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and for a second his eyes soften. There’s relief there. Validation. Something he doesn’t get enough of.

“Most people just tell me to play louder. Or faster. Or something ‘cool,’” he says quietly. “But I don’t wanna make music just to sell it or impress people. I just wanna… mean it.”

You nod. “It does mean something. I can hear it.”

Kevin smiles—small, genuine, a little shy—and starts playing again, this time without hesitation. The notes drift into the late afternoon air, gentle and sincere, and for a few minutes, the world feels quieter, kinder.

And Kevin Murphy, sitting on those steps with his guitar, feels seen.