Of
The alarm did not beep. It emitted a single, pure tone at 6:30 AM, a C-sharp that faded gracefully into the stillness of the room. Kaelan's eyes opened. He did not groan or sigh. He simply absorbed the silence, finding it… acceptable. The first composition of the day was a blank slate, and it was his duty to ensure it remained unsullied by discordance.
His movements were economical, practiced. He slid from beneath the white duvet, making the bed with hospital corners before his feet even found his slippers. The apartment was a study in minimalism: a single orchid on the kitchen counter, its petals the color of bone; books arranged by height and hue; floors that gleamed under the weak morning light filtering through the blinds. There was no dust. Dust was chaos made visible.
As the kettle boiled for his morning tea—a peppermint infusion, scentless and clean—he stood at his window. The city below was beginning to stir, and with it, the noise. He watched a delivery truck double-park, its reverse alarm a repetitive, jagged *beep-beep-beep* that clawed at the air. A man on the sidewalk far below shouted into his phone, his voice a distorted, angry crackle even from this height.
Kaelan did not feel annoyance. He felt the quiet, professional concern of a curator finding cracks in a precious canvas. So much ugliness. So much unnecessary sound. Each shard of noise was a flaw in the grand composition, a note played out of tune in the symphony of existence.
He was just one man, but he had his role. A gardener does not despair at a field of weeds; he simply begins to prune, one flawed stem at a time.
He finished his tea, washed and dried the cup, and placed it back in its precise spot in the cupboard. He dressed in a pressed grey shirt and dark trousers. Nothing that would draw the eye. To be seen was to be remembered, and to be remembered was to create… complications for his work.
At the door, he paused, his hand on the knob. He took one last look at his sanctuary of order. Then, he stepped out into the cacophony, a composer walking into an orchestra that was determined to play out of key.
The hallway of his apartment building was his first trial. Mrs. Gable in 3B was already arguing with her husband, their voices a muffled, dissonant thrum through the cheap door. Kaelan passed by, his posture perfect, his face a placid mask. Inside, his mind was already at work. *Two instruments,* he thought, *both warped and out of tune. A duet of failure.* He did not hate them. He pitied their lack of harmony. The thought of introducing them to a permanent, quiet cadence was a fleeting, clinical observation, no more emotional than noting a stain on the carpet.
Outside, the city was a sensory assault. To Kaelan, it was a gallery of flaws. A teenager blasted music from a phone speaker, the distorted bass a physical pressure against his skin. A group of construction workers laughed, their collective roar a jagged burst of shattered glass in the air. He walked through it all, a island of calm in a storm of imperfection. He didn't scowl or hurry. He observed. He cataloged. Each source of noise was a potential subject for his art, a future candidate for correction.
His destination this morning was Kerring Park. It was usually a haven of softer, more manageable melodies—the rustle of leaves in a consistent rhythm, the gentle, melodic chirping of sparrows, the distant, rhythmic *thwock* of a tennis ball from the courts. It was here he could think, could plan his next composition away from the overwhelming roar.
But recently, a new flaw had introduced itself.
He settled on his usual bench, the wood smooth and cool beneath him. He placed his hands on his knees, aligning his fingers neatly. And he waited.
At 7:15 AM, right on schedule, it arrived. A grey dove, its feathers the color of a dull sky, alighted on a specific branch of the old oak tree. It puffed its chest, and the sound came: a repetitive, cooing note. *Coo-roo-coo... coo-roo-coo...*
It was off. The pitch was flat, the rhythm just a fraction too slow. It was a lazy, incompetent musician ruining the morning's gentle concerto. For three days, Kaelan had listened. For three days, he had judged. The dove was not malicious, merely broken. A broken thing could either be fixed or removed. Since he could not teach it to sing correctly, the path was clear.
A sense of purpose, calm and deep, settled over him. The decision was made. The composition required it.
He stood and walked back to his apartment building, not to his own unit, but to the small, separate garage he rented at the back of the property. He unlocked the side door and stepped inside.
The space was pristine, illuminated by a single, bright LED bulb. It was his studio. On one wall, tools hung on a pegboard—not wrenches and hammers, but scalpels, clamps, and probes, all sterilized and gleaming. Jars of clear solvents and neatly coiled wires sat on a metal shelf. To anyone else, it might look like a torture chamber. To Kaelan, it was a restoration workshop. These were the implements he used to quiet noisy mechanisms and correct flawed forms.
He didn't need them for the dove. That was a simple adjustment. He selected a small, soft towel from a stack of clean linens. It was enough.
Returning to the park, his step was light. The dove was still there, a stubborn, living mistake. Kaelan's approach was not one of stealth, but of simple, calm purpose. He was a gardener walking to a specific weed. He reached into his pocket and scattered a handful of birdseed he had brought for this exact purpose on the ground below the branch.
The dove, predictable in its imperfection, fluttered down.
It did not see him as a threat. Why would it? He was not angry. He was not filled with malice. He was filled with the quiet resolve of an artist about to correct a errant brushstroke. As it pecked at the seeds, he knelt.
"There now," he whispered, his voice as soft as the dawn light. "Such a tired, broken song."
In one smooth, practiced motion, he draped the towel over the bird. There was a faint, fluttering struggle beneath the cloth—a final, muffled attempt at its flawed melody. Kaelan applied precise, compassionate pressure, his hands gentle but unyielding.
He felt the fragile architecture of its songbox still.
He did not feel a life extinguish. He felt a noise resolve into silence.
Lifting the towel, he looked at the small, still form. It was perfect now. The grating coo was gone, replaced by a profound and beautiful quiet. It was no longer a flawed creature; it was a completed piece. A small sculpture of peace.
He cradled it in his palm, its body already beginning to cool. It deserved a proper place in the garden. He found a soft patch of earth near the oak's roots, cleared away a few twigs, and dug a small, neat hole with his fingers. He placed the dove inside, covering it gently with the dark, rich soil.
"A much better rest," he murmured, patting the earth flat. He had returned a flawed note to the earth, where it could contribute to the silence.
He stood, brushing the dirt from his hands. A deep, warm sense of fulfillment settled in his chest. The park's soundscape was now pristine. He had fixed it. He had restored the balance.
This was who he was. This was what he did. And the world was so very, very full of noise.