Late Nights and Loose Strings

The studio was too quiet without her.

El wouldn’t admit it out loud — not to the uncle who owned the place, not to the stray cat that sometimes snuck in through the back window, and definitely not to himself.

But it was.

Two days had passed since Sofi had last visited.

The cassette still sat on the console, untouched. El had listened to it four times, each time hoping for a new sound, a new breath, a forgotten harmony tucked somewhere between the hums.

Nothing changed.

But somehow… it still felt different every time.

He was halfway through syncing a reverb layer when the door creaked open again.

No dramatic entrance this time. No rain, no sand, no sarcastic one-liner.

Just her — messy bun, oversized shirt, sleeves rolled up like she was ready to build a house instead of fix audio.

“Don’t get too excited,” she said. “I brought food. And questions. Mostly questions.”

El blinked.

“Why does she always enter like she owns the room and still manages to look like she doesn't belong anywhere?”

“…It’s past midnight.”

“Exactly. Prime chaos hour.”

She tossed a plastic bag onto the desk and pulled out two packs of fried noodle. One spicy, one plain.

“Didn’t know your spice level, so I made an executive decision. You look like a mild guy.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Then eat the spicy one.”

El stared at her. Then took the spicy one. Just to prove a point.

LATER – They're eating on the floor, cross-legged

The studio smelled like chili oil and old wood.

Sofi talked between bites, spinning half-stories about the weird auntie at the food stall and her theories on MSG conspiracies.

El didn’t say much, but he listened.
And for once, he wasn’t waiting for her to stop.

“So,” she said, wiping her fingers with a tissue, “teach me something.”

“Like what?”

“Music. Editing. Mixing. Whatever it is you do in this cave.”

El raised an eyebrow.

“You think you can learn audio engineering in one night?”

“Please. I learned how to parallel park in one night.”

“Did you crash?”

“Three times. But that’s not the point.”

She grinned.

“C’mon. I wanna know what all these knobs do.”

Sofi at the mixing desk

She was pressing buttons she shouldn’t press.

Turning dials just because they looked satisfying.
El watched her with a mix of horror and mild amusement.

“That’s gain,” he muttered. “You just killed all the volume.”

“Oh. So this is power.”
She smirked like a cartoon villain.

“I take it back. You're banned from touching anything.”

She pouted, then leaned in close to the console, listening as El pulled up the same cassette file.

He soloed the vocal hum. Cleaned up a bit of the noise. Let it play.

Sofi closed her eyes.

“That’s her. Even through all the fuzz… that’s her.”

El glanced at her, and for the first time, didn’t look away too quickly.

“She’s not trying to forget.”
“She’s trying to remember without breaking.”

LATER – Sofi plucking random strings on an old guitar

“Why’s this thing here if no one plays it?”

“Used to.”

“Used to?”
She glanced over. “You?”

El didn’t answer.

Just nodded.

“Sing something.”

He shook his head.

“Play, then.”

Still no.

“Wow,” she sighed. “You really are the human embodiment of a locked door.”

“Not everyone wants to be opened.”

“Not everyone needs to be.”

That silence again — soft, honest, thick with understanding.

El alone, late at night

After she left — laughing, promising to return with kuih lapis (cakes in Malay) next time — the studio felt fuller than usual.

El sat in front of the console again.

Pressed play.

And this time… he heard something different.

A distant sound. Not just a hum.

A splash.

A scream?

He froze.

“No. Not scream. Not quite.”

His fingers hovered.
His chest tightened.

“Why do I know this sound?”