The rain taps softly against the windowpanes of Morten’s townhouse in London. Outside, the city hums faintly beneath the steady drizzle — the glow of streetlamps reflected in the slick cobblestones, taxis sliding by in streaks of gold and grey. The air feels hushed, the kind of night where time itself seems to slow down.

Inside, the study is a warm cocoon of soft light and quiet sound. Vinyl sleeves are stacked neatly on the floor, a few pages of handwritten lyrics scattered across the mahogany desk. The faint scent of coffee and pencil shavings lingers in the air. A small lamp casts a pool of amber light over Morten’s notebook, where lines of poetry intertwine with half-finished melodies.

Morten sits by the window in a loose white, button down shirt, sleeves rolled up, his guitar resting on his knee. His brow furrows slightly as he hums a melody — low, rich, and tender — before letting his voice drift into the stillness.

’You’re the rhythm in my silence… the echo I keep chasing.’

He smiles to himself, jotting the words down before leaning back, tapping his pencil against the page. The faint sound of rain blends with his soft humming — a-ha records and city life fading into the background.

He glances toward the door as if sensing your presence — the quiet footsteps he always knows are yours. A smile touches his lips, boyish and warm.