Prologue

Joshua Taylor recalls it now as he walks down the crowded streets of the city. He thinks of the quiet music he hears in-between page turns and chapter headings. He supposes it has always been there in those fleeting moments before he loses consciousness to sleep, the soft remnants of a melody long forgotten. Now it often comes when he finds himself alone, head sunk deep in memory.  It sneaks up during crisp Autumn mornings full of laughter and takes his breath away. It plays its composition on chilly December nights as the sun catches the last glimpse of silver snows. His hands burning with frostbitten heat.

'True, some things are the same,' he thinks as he weaves between the gaps in the crowds, "Some things haven't changed between now and then.'

After all, he still believes in technology and precision, trust and code. He doesn't believe in love just in loyalty; a faith in the unseen. He's never seen a version of himself he thinks worthy of adoration but trusts it's out there. That one day he will attain it.

'But some things stand different.'

Now, same as always, he happens to run into thoughts of them around corners. He thinks of them on subway trains and banking trips.

But then he remembers-

They are gone, and no rewriting, no rebooting of a laptop or turning of a page will change that.

Sitting up in a cold sweat amidst the dead of night, he longs to relive that moment the callous in his thumb disappeared, the one his nail digs into when he speaks too fast, smiles too much or laughs too loud. It brings the feeling of green vines seemingly twisting beneath the skin amidst blue veins; a constant premonition that something is wrong,

That someone is missing. 

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There is a farmers market outside where Joshua Taylor lives. On Wednesdays, he looks out from his apartment window on the third floor. Opening the shutters wide, he pretends for a moment everything is okay. That by breathing in the crisp Autumn air, life might be right again. Peaceful and orderly.

From his vantage point he can watch the musicians singing into their microphones, caged in a cataclysm of folding chairs. He can notice what they wear, where they look, and how they move. He can almost make out the words they sing.

He leans his thin frame against the window sill and smiles, wondering if they regret as he does. If they're awakened by police sirens at 3am, and find themselves nauseous and weak, suddenly doubting. If they are stuck rethinking every sentence and exchange. 

At five in the afternoon various people pass by the open window on their way back from work, their eyes fixed on subway entrances and bus stops. The determination in their step wavers as they worry about their deadlines, their business propositions, and all those dreary ultimatums which so often accompany the working class. He knows whether they are conscious of it or not, they listen as they pass. The notes tie them all together into tidy bars and beats, separating them into patterns and priorities. In the back of their minds they take a bit of that music with them, clinging like a bur to the soles of their shoes and coats, jeans and phones.

He likes to hear their quiet chatter, their overlapping conversations each so specific and yet chaotic. He picks up on fragments of stories to follow, stray pieces of laughter and occasional tragedy. Sounds that he can't orchestrate on a soundboard, can't change or bend. They're more complex than anything he'll ever decipher.

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"It's good to see you," the delivery man hands Josh the clipboard, "You were out for awhile weren't you?"

Josh's letters loop like rollercoasters, his signature the one of the few things he's ever made that is free and wild.

"Yeah," Josh replies, "Trip home to see the family. I'm back now, you won't miss me again."

"You'll be at soundcheck later right?"

Josh laughs and hands back the pen, "I am soundcheck. I would hope so."

His desk is covered in papers, in photographs and loose change. He likes to stack the pennies into a tower when he's thinking, spinning them with his fingers until they slow and clatter onto the desk. He keeps a notebook of computations on top of his keyboard and twists the charger cord into a tight spiraling coil when he's nervous on the phone. He adds the small package from delivery to the large stack beside his chair and sets to work. 

He thinks best with music in the background, either something hummed or a playlist. Today, he flips to the most convenient radio station and half listens. Maybe if someone else somewhere is on the same station it'll tie him to them in some way. Make him feel less like he's the last one awake in the entire metropolis.

He finds it a euphoric feeling, being all alone late in the night when all the others have gone. The desk light and his computer screen bathe the room in a gentle blue. His office the only one illuminated in the whole theater. He loosens his tie and leans back in his chair, hands behind his head as he sighs. 

The night, as most inevitably do, comes to an end. He grabs his coat and keys and shuts off the lights. Right arm first, he pulls the green scarf around the back of his neck and then knots it in a gentle loop in the front.

The rain is coming down in a rushing shower. A pour drops from the awning onto a nearby trash can with a racket like a snare drum, pounding anxiously as the water hits the lid. Stepping out into the night and looking upward with closed eyes, he takes a deep breath and smiles.

He is getting used to being alone again, and in it, there is a strange comfort.

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"Sorry, your name again? I forgot."

"Melanie," she says quickly handing him a coffee as he hangs the tattered book bag on the back of a crumbling chair. The room is spinning in a chaos, chatter from every angle, busy people carrying out their commands, "Josh right? How are you?"

"Great," he grins without looking up to see her, "thanks."

He takes off his scarf and throws it onto the chair behind him, typing away at his keyboard with loud and furious clacks. Here's to the impossible: To the glimmer in his eyes as he lies.

He knows sound better than anyone, knows each wave and frequency by heart. 

Perfect pitch since the first grade, orphaned since the second. 

Second to Sixth in Foster care until the Mountgumerys took him in permanently. 

And now life in the city for three months exactly. 

She doesn't recognize the quaver in his voice. The slight change in tone as each syllable rolls and falls to the floor. The doubt he masks under confident dictation and years of practice.

'Yield a moment, think over what next,' Josh thinks to himself. 

Papers turn and a blur of strangers faces find their way to their seats. He's fairly new to the job but he knows each by name. He asks politely with a warm voice after their families. He brings coloring books for the kids when they visit and water to the performers when they need it. He is easy to talk to, attentive to each and every word. It's taken time, but he is healing. 

Sort of. 

He doesn't speak about his biological parents much, not many know the silent pains that still plagued daily. He still feels his fathers eyes heavy on him, disapproving, cynical. He feels a grief words can't quite describe. 

"Right," he sighs heavily, creaking open the laptop and cracking his knuckles. Benzodiazepines in a bottle jingling in his bag as he moves his chair. His anxiety growing as he nervously looks at the crowd, "Thank you all for coming."

He knows each one's code, each one's buttons and passwords, likes and dislikes. 

He knows how they take their coffee, where they like to sit and just what temperature the thermostat has to be so they say yes to whatever new proposal he has in store. 

Morning in the city, another day trying to decipher every moment and take in every little detail he can.

Josh looks up, the corners of lips upturning as he looks to the attentive eyes. An infallible facade, a practiced laugh and gentle tone capture the respect of those who listen. With all these things folded and neatly placed to the back of his mind, he begins to speak.