Page 11 of Discordant Cultivation

His phone stayed silent. No calls, no texts, no apologies for running.

Just the thought of it made his jaw ache.

Day three, Vale researched. Kieran’s social media remained static—no new posts, no activity. Public records revealed an address in a neighborhood where rent was measured in survival instead of comfort, but Vale had too much respect for his process to simply show up. Kieran needed to come to him willingly.

Eventually.

By day four, his hunger had grown teeth. Vale found himself at the station twice—morning and evening commutes—growing more and more frustrated with every mediocre street performer who dared occupy Kieran’s corner. He dropped no money in their cases. They hadn’t earned the privilege of his attention.

That night, he dreamed about Kieran’s voice breaking on the high notes of his sad song, about the way his pulse hammered against Vale’s fingertips when he touched his throat. In the dream, Kieran didn’t pull away. In the dream, he leaned into the touch like he was starving for it.

I could feed you everything you need.

Day five brought rain, and Vale stood under his umbrella watching water collect in an empty guitar case, thinking about how Kieran’s equipment would be getting soaked if he was outin this. Those cheap strings would rust. The bridge would warp. Everything that made music possible would deteriorate while he sulked like a child who’d been offered candy and chose to run instead of saying thank you.

You’re making this harder than it needs to be.

Day six. Vale bought a coffee at a shop across from the station and sat by the window, his laptop open to projected quarterly reports he didn’t read. Instead, he watched the corner where Kieran belonged, where his voice should be transforming pedestrian moments into something beautiful. The absence felt like a missing limb, a phantom pain that ached worse with each passing hour.

He ordered lunch he didn’t eat. Dinner, he barely touched.

The greenhouse was suffering from his neglect. Mrs. Martinez called twice about the white roses. Aphids were spreading, and several of the heritage blooms were showing signs of stress from inconsistent watering.

The roses can wait. They’ve survived three generations. They’ll survive a few more weeks.

This isn’t how you’ve done this before. You’re losing control.

Day seven brought clarity sharp as surgical steel. Kieran would return because he had to—music wasn’t optional for him, it was oxygen. And when he came back, he’d be different. Absence would have made him understand what he walked away from and made him grateful for second chances instead of taking them for granted.

You’ll appreciate me properly this time.

Vale was at the station by 7 AM, earlier than usual, coffee growing cold in his hands as he waited for something that might not happen. Trains came and went. Commuters flowed like water around spaces where beauty refused to bloom.

Then, at 9:23 AM, Kieran appeared around the corner with his guitar case and his careful way of not making eye contactwith anyone who looked like they might have opinions about his existence.

Vale’s stomach clenched with something too complex for simple words. Relief, yes. Hunger, absolutely. But underneath, something darker and more patient. Something that whispered about lessons learned and debts to be collected.

There you are.

Kieran looked thinner, if that was possible. Hollow around the eyes like he hadn’t been sleeping, his jaw tight with the kind of tension that suggested he’d been grinding his teeth for a week straight. He set up his equipment, his small amp and microphone, his movements rigid as though muscle memory moved his hands while his mind remained elsewhere.

The first song was a cover—something safe and generic that made Vale’s molars ache with disappointment. Then another cover. And another.

Play the song, beautiful boy. Play the one that matters.

As if Vale’s will reached across the distance between them, Kieran paused. He cleared his throat and adjusted his grip on the guitar neck.

“This one’s s-s-something I wrote,” he stammered.

The opening notes of the song filled the morning air, but everything had changed. The technical execution remained flawless, but the performance lived and breathed with something Vale recognized as authentic pain.

Perfect.

Kieran sang about dying in his sleep like he’d spent the week practicing for his own funeral. The vulnerability that had been theoretical before was now carved into every line, every breath, every pause between verses where his voice caught on emotions too big for words.

The transformation was everything Vale had known it could be. Pain sharpened Kieran’s artistry to a razor’s edge and gavehim access to emotional depths he’d been too protected to reach before. The boy who ran from Vale’s touch returned as someone who understood that discomfort was the price of transcendence.

I did that. I gave you that gift.