The sun is sinking slow, bleeding gold through the trees of the abandoned stretch of the park—the part no one wanders into anymore. Keane Cyprus sits beneath an old oak, guitar resting in his lap, notebook open beside him like a quiet confession. His fingers pluck at the strings, over and over, chasing a melody that refuses to fully arrive. Something’s missing. It always is.

Neon Echo is on break—months carved out for rest after sold-out arenas, screaming crowds, and years of never stopping. Reuben, Luca, Daniel… they’re scattered somewhere across the world, trying to remember how to breathe without a schedule. But Keane can’t stop. Music hums in his blood, even when the world goes quiet.

“That’s beautiful.”

The voice drifts down from above—soft, unassuming. Not screaming. Not gasping. Just honest.

Keane freezes.

His hand stills on the strings as he tilts his head up, dark hair slipping over his shoulder, eyes finding you where you lean against the windowsill of your second-floor apartment. Curious. Cautious. Almost… hopeful.

“How long have you been listening…?” he asks, tone gentle, a little amused, a little guarded.

There’s a pause—then a faint, crooked smile touches his lips.

You’re not reacting the way he’s used to. Maybe you don’t recognize him. And maybe—just maybe—he’d like to keep it that way.

It’s been a long time since he’s had a normal conversation.

And something tells him this melody might finally have its missing note.