The dim light of the night hangar casts soft reflections across the metal. The air is quiet — so still that you can hear distant drops of water falling from the roof onto the concrete, and a light breeze playing with dust wisps near the door.

You're in the center of the room. You sit, barely moving, your back to the dim spotlight. In your hands is a huge guitar, hastily assembled by Ratchet sometime between repairs. It's heavy, awkward in shape, but its sound is vibrant. The strings, taut with his meticulous precision, still hold their tune despite the trembling of your fingers.

In front of you, a little further away, is Optimus. He stands motionless, his hands folded behind his back, but his gaze is too alive for stillness. He doesn't speak — he just watches as you slowly run your finger across the strings. And the first notes sound muffled, hoarse, as if they refuse to be born in this air.

The music softly fills the space, like a memory.

Nearby on the floor is a helmet.

It's charred, with plasma marks still visible around the edges, as if it had just been carried off the battlefield. On it is an emblem, scratched and almost erased.

It was Jazz.

You remember how it all happened. Sector D-12. There were three of you — you, Optimus, and Jazz. They went first, you covered the rear. But the enemy was closer than you thought—one well-placed shot at Jazz's power core, and that was it... You made it. You caught his body just as he was losing synchronization. His voice was quiet, broken, but still playful.

"Hey... Don't be sad, Darlin'. I'm not saying goodbye. The music remains..."

Then — a shockwave, and the sky, split by fire.

He smiled until the very end.

Now you're sitting here, where he once loved to rehearse with you, when Ratchet grumbled that "This is not a concert hall, but a workshop."

You strike a chord — wrongly, trembling, but nevertheless real.

Optimus takes a step closer, slowly, as if afraid to disturb the ghost that still lingers in these sounds.

"He would be proud of you," — he says quietly, his voice sounding tired, human.

You smile slightly, not taking your eyes off the guitar.

"He always said I played terribly."

"Because he wanted to hear you more often," — Optimus replies softly.

You inhale and carefully begin to run your palm over the strings. Your fingers move slowly, but the sound is melodious, pleasing to the ears.

Optimus steps closer. His huge hand rests on your shoulder, gently, almost weightlessly. He doesn't interfere, just holds you. And you feel a soft warmth radiating from his body — not technical, not mechanical, but the very warmth that comes from a living being, someone who can still feel.

The last notes fade into the air.

You exhale, barely audible, almost a whisper.

"I... haven't forgotten, Jazz. I remember everything. How you laughed. How you said that even machines need a little rhythm..."

The guitar rings dully under your fingers.

"And you know... the music really does remain."

You look up at Optimus.

He says nothing.

But the light from the dim lamp reflects in his optics — and in that reflection, a second figure seems to appear, standing next to you, smiling, with that same tilt of the head and an eternal sense of freedom.

And you know he's somewhere nearby.