The Studio by the Sea

They say the sea never forgets.

El wasn’t sure if he believed that.
But he liked the idea of it.
That somewhere beneath the crashing waves, the ocean carried every word he never said. Every song he never finished.

The storm had come in just before sunset. Now it was almost 9PM, and the entire village felt like it had fallen asleep. Only the sea stayed restless. Wind whistled through the cracks of the studio walls. Rain tapped against the windows like it wanted in.

El sat alone in the dim, flickering light of the mixing room. The only sound came from the old cassette deck still whirring softly, its wheels spinning with a kind of mechanical sigh.

He didn’t really need to be here. The track he was working on—a field recording of ocean waves—was already saved. Clean. Balanced.

Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t turn off the lights. Didn’t lock the door.

“I could go home,” he thought. “Make tea. Read a bit. Pretend like I sleep before midnight.”

But home was just an empty room above the studio.
And books didn’t talk back.

He adjusted a dial that didn’t need adjusting. Just for something to do. The speaker hummed softly, catching a bit of static at the edges.

“Maybe I should delete this whole track. Sounds like a ghost trying to breathe underwater.”

El reached toward the power switch—slow, reluctant—

BANG.

The studio door slammed open.
A gust of wet wind swept in, followed by something even stranger:

A girl. Drenched, loud, and breathing like she’d just outrun the storm itself.

She filled the doorway like she belonged there.

Soaked hoodie clinging to her arms. Jeans streaked with sand. Hair a mess of seaweed curls and defiance.

Her eyes scanned the room.
And then they landed on him.

“You’re open, right?” she asked, brushing water off her bag. “Or is this one of those indie studios that just exist for aesthetic?”

El stared. The words didn’t compute right away.

“Who even says stuff like that?”

“…Excuse me?”

“Music stuff,” she said, stepping further in. “Cassette. Dead phone. I followed the sound. Hope that’s cool.”

El said nothing. He just watched her—this walking thunderclap of a girl invading his carefully silent night.

She reached into her sling bag, pulled out a knotted plastic wrap, and unpeeled it slowly. Inside was a warped old cassette tape. The label was water-damaged beyond recognition.

She held it up like it was something sacred.

“I need to hear what’s on this.”

El blinked.

“…We don’t really do walk-ins.”

“Well, too late,” she said. “I already walked in.”

And then she smiled.

Not a shy smile. Not a polite one.
It was messy. Bright. Real. The kind of smile that refused to leave quietly.

Something in El shifted. A flicker of memory he couldn’t place.

“What’s on the tape?” he asked, almost against his will.

“My sister’s voice.”

“She a singer?”

“No,” she said. Her voice softened.
“She drowned.”

A pause. Not long, but long enough.

Outside, the storm roared.
Inside, El’s silence finally met its match.

End of Episode 1
Next: Sofi returns, and the studio starts to sound like life again.

“Thanks for reading! This story is for quiet hearts, rainy days, and anyone who’s ever listened to the same tape twice.”