Nathan woke from a sound sleep that leaves the body heavy and the mind uncertain of its own clarity. The air in his room was still, tinted with the faint hum of morning waves outside the window. For a long moment, he lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the slow rhythm of the sea. The curtains swayed like tired sails. He sat up and looked through the glass at the clouds stretched across the sky, thick, luminous, and low. The world outside seemed soft-edged, as if wrapped in cotton and light.
He stepped out to the balcony. The wood creaked beneath his bare feet, and a cool breeze carried the ocean's salt. Far out, the horizon looked like the border of another world, a faraway land where everything he once wanted still awaited him. He closed his eyes, breathed, and returned to call his father. The phone rang three times before it stopped. He didn't leave a message. There was nothing to say that wouldn't sound rehearsed.
John Blake sat among a crowd of black suits and folded hands, his face small and quiet beneath the brim of a worn hat. The funeral was held in a small church overlooking the northern cliffs of Maui. The ocean below churned like a restless memory. He watched the casket being lowered into the earth and thought of how long it had been since he last saw the man inside. Murphy had been his bassist, friend, and shadow through half a lifetime of music. They had played in smoky bars, worn out studios, and neon-washed halls until fame finally split them apart. Now, only silence played on the wind.
When Marie, Murphy's widow, approached him, John stood. She had aged, but her eyes still carried the same warmth he remembered from the old days. She reached for him, and he caught her trembling hands."John," she said softly, "you came."He nodded. "I had to."When she leaned into him and wept, he held her without words. The years between them dissolved into the quiet ache of shared history.
Later, outside beneath the church awning, he saw Marlon waiting by the rail. The old producer looked almost spectral, thinner, slower, his skin pale from too much hospital light. Yet when he smiled, it was the same crooked grin John remembered from the night they recorded Smoke on the Tide. They embraced tightly, as if testing whether either was real."You still smoke?" Marlon asked."Not for years.""Then today's as good a day as any."
They shared a cigarette by the cliff. The wind stole most of the smoke. Marlon told him, in a voice that rasped like gravel, that the doctors had given him months. John said nothing for a while. Then Marlon added, almost lightly, "You should get yourself checked, too, brother. I heard the cough."John smiled faintly. "I already know what I've got. Just not how long it'll take."
The cigarette burned to its end. They let it fall into the grass and watched it smolder out. It wasn't defiance that kept them there; it was memory and the strange comfort of finality.
When John drove back toward the coast that evening, the light had turned amber. The road wound through palms and silent fields. He thought of Nathan, of the last words they'd exchanged before he left:"Need help with that?""I'm good."These are two words that have built an entire wall between them.
The resort shimmered in the distance, the Great White Shark, whitewashed stone and glass rising over turquoise water. Nathan ran it now. John only checked in, a ghost hovering over ledgers and schedules. When he entered the main hall, he saw his son hunched over a laptop, eyes buried in figures and timelines."You've got Martinez coming in today," John said, stopping by the counter.Nathan didn't look up. "I know.""Make sure he gets the villa near the reef. He's particular about noise.""Already assigned."John hesitated, searching for something softer to add. "You're doing well, Nate."Nathan typed another line. "Thanks."
It wasn't bitterness that drove the boy, but exhaustion, the kind born from trying to live up to a ghost that never rested. John turned and left, his shadow fading against the marble floor.
Back at the music school, the world felt alive again. The hall smelled faintly of varnish and sea air. Maria was tuning her guitar, her lengthy hair falling over her shoulder as she plucked each string precisely Leilani, her notebook on her knee, arranged sheets for the choir. Alex was recording metallic clinks in the corner, claiming he could turn them into percussion. John smiled faintly. They reminded him of what music had once meant: discovery, noise, heart.
He gathered them for one last rehearsal before the session with the label. Mick, Pua, and Gabriel arrived late, laughing, reeking of late nights and freedom. He let them settle before speaking."Let's hear the set," he said.They started. The first chords were sloppy, and the rhythm was uneven. But when Pua stepped forward and began to play, something caught. His hands moved with untrained grace, the melody trembling with sincerity. The others fell quiet.
When it ended, John put down his clipboard and met their eyes."Better," he said to Pua. "But better isn't great. Great is when you forget yourself entirely."Pua nodded, flushed. "I'll get there."John smiled. "Then you'll be fine."
As the day waned, he found himself alone in the hall, packing cables and sheet music. That was when he noticed the girl on the porch. She sat cross-legged, staring at the old guitar hanging by the door, a black-bodied relic from his touring days. Her notebook was open, filled with uneven lines of handwriting. When she noticed him, she stood quickly, startled.
"You're John Blake," she said.He nodded. "I used to be."Her laugh was light, nervous. "I'm Stacey. I uh I've been writing to you. Emails, probably too many."
He remembered seeing her name once or twice, buried between booking notices and promotional spam. She looked younger than Nathan, maybe in her mid-twenties, her eyes bright and alive in a way that made him uneasy."What brings you here, Stacey?""I study music anthropology at Johns Hopkins," she said. "I've been traveling for my thesis, collecting stories from musicians. The ones people forgot."John raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a lonely job.""Sometimes," she said, smiling. "But it's beautiful. I was in Milan last month, learning about Del Torro, the saxophonist. They said you met him once?""Once," he admitted. "A long time ago."
He opened the door. "Come in. You might as well hear what old ghosts sound like."
Inside, the air smelled of brass and cedar. Instruments lined the walls like sleeping creatures. He handed her an antique saxophone, polished but unused. "Go on," he said. "Play what you learned."She hesitated, then lifted the mouthpiece to her lips. The first note wavered, then steadied. The melody that followed was soft and haunting; a tune John had played for Nathan's mother one summer night long ago. It filled the room with echoes of another life. When she finished, she looked up, shy but proud.John said nothing for a long while. Then quietly: "You play like you remember something you never lived."
They talked for hours afterward. She told him about the people she'd met, the languages she'd learned through sound, the way every place left its rhythm in her. He spoke little, listening, watching her gestures, the way she spoke of art as if it were faith. For the first time in years, the weight of his solitude eased.
Later that night, as he locked up, he noticed a car parked across the street. Lydia Stone sat inside, half shadowed by the dim light. She was once a singer, his contemporary, rival, and almost. He hadn't seen her since the tour of '93. When she stepped out, her voice still carried that slow warmth that could melt through any silence."I heard you're still teaching the young ones," she said."And you're still chasing the past," he replied.She smiled. "Maybe we both are."
They walked along the path leading to the docks. She spoke about retiring from the stage and about wanting peace. He confessed he didn't know what peace was anymore. The night hummed with cicadas and the low tide against the rocks. When she touched his arm, it was gentle, uncertain."You look tired, John," she said.He chuckled. "Maybe I've been tired for twenty years.""Then stop fighting it," she whispered.
The wind carried her words away. They parted there, without promise, but with a sense that something long buried had shifted.
Nathan's day began differently. He spent mornings at the café by the main road, a weathered building owned by Mrs. Hess, who had known him since boyhood. The rain had begun again, soft at first. He helped her with boxes, moving them from the back to the front. She teased him about his suit, saying he looked more like his father daily."That's not a compliment," he said."Then change what it means," she replied.
She introduced him to Olivia, a new helper, a quiet woman with gentle eyes and a way of listening that made you aware of your own silences. They talked briefly, mostly about the weather and the sea. When Mrs. Hess left to fetch supplies, Nathan stayed behind. Olivia asked him why he worked so much. He shrugged."Someone has to keep things running.""And what do you want?" she asked.He hesitated. "I don't know anymore."
Outside, thunder rolled across the distance. He remembered the attic at home, the piano he hadn't touched in years, and his mother's laughter on the shore. The rain deepened, and he realized he'd stayed too long. Mrs. Hess called him back to reality with a look that said she understood more than she let on.
When he finally drove back to the resort, the horizon was dimming. Paulie Martinez had arrived, and Nathan moved through formal greetings like a machine. Later, when the guests had settled, he stood by the water alone. The sea reflected a bruised sky, silvered by moonlight. Somewhere beyond the breakers, he could see a lone figure on the opposite cliff, his father, cigarette in hand, staring at the same endless horizon.
For a long while, neither moved. The waves between them whispered like old songs, and neither dared to finish. In that quiet distance, there were two men, each believing he'd lost the other, both waiting for something to begin again.
And the sea kept breathing, patient and endless, as if it knew that all journeys, however far they drift, eventually return home.