Chapter 1 - The Gig That Broke Us

Chapter 1: The Gig That Broke Us

Rain came down like memory—soft, steady, and impossible to ignore. It drummed against the windowpane of the dim bar, bleeding neon into puddles outside. The kind of night that felt paused in time, like the world forgot to move forward.

Julian sat on a torn vinyl stool near the stage, cradling his guitar like a wounded limb. He watched the rain distort the glass, the red and blue lights outside smudging into one long sigh. His name was scrawled in chalk on a board by the entrance. “Julian Grey – 9:30 PM.” A quiet finality clung to it.

The bartender gave a nod. It was time.

He stepped up to the mic with the weight of a hundred could-have-beens pressing on his shoulders. His fingers shook as he adjusted the strap on his weathered acoustic guitar. He’d played this bar a dozen times, maybe more. But tonight felt different—hollow, like a memory fading in real-time.

“One last one,” he said, voice dry. “This one’s… old.”

He strummed the first few chords of the song they used to call theirs. His fingers hesitated on the second verse—a familiar sting in his chest—but he played through it. He didn’t dare look up yet.

Then he did.

And there she was.

Siena.

Back near the exit sign, half-hidden behind a curtain of shadow and light. Her hair a little shorter, her coat clutched around her like armor. Arms crossed. Watching, but not quite there.

Julian blinked. The notes faltered, just for a second.

He played on.

Their song was never a hit. But it was real. It was late-night drives and burnt coffee and whispered arguments under streetlamps. It was her laugh in the kitchen. The sound of belonging.

And now, it was a requiem.

She didn’t clap. She didn’t cry. She just stood there, like a ghost in familiar clothes, asking with her silence: What are you still chasing?

When the song ended, there was no applause. Just the dull hum of conversation returning. Julian set his guitar down by the amp, careful not to look back. The applause would’ve meant less. Her silence meant everything.

The dressing room was colder than he remembered.

He sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, hands buried in his hair. The towel he used to wipe his palms felt rough, like it was scrubbing away more than sweat.

“Still not over her?” the bartender asked from the doorway, tossing him a bottle of water.

Julian caught it. Didn’t reply.

“Didn’t think so.”

When he stepped outside into the wet air, she was already gone.

The next morning was gray, like the sky had forgotten how to be anything else.

He wandered his apartment like a man haunting his own life. Dishes in the sink. Vinyls half-filed. A song half-written on a napkin by the piano. He opened a drawer looking for a pen.

And found it.

An old phone—his brother’s. Cracked screen, heavy in the hand. He hadn’t touched it in years. It still smelled faintly like cigarette smoke and sandalwood.

He pressed the side button. Somehow, it lit up. Glitched icons, a flicker of digital breath. Only one app was visible, pulsing like a heartbeat:

REWIND.

A prompt blinked.

You have 1 rewind remaining. Would you like to return to yesterday?

Julian stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

Memories of last night spilled into the space around him. Her eyes. The silence. The song.

His heart beat once, like a drum cue.

And he tapped yes.