Page 129 of Hymns of the Broken

I drift closer to the wall, fingers grazing the edges of the plaques. Some are albums. Some are singles. All gleam like trophies, though the shine feels heavy—earned through blood and pain.

Her Last Confessional.

Every single one.

One frame has a photo tucked inside—a younger version of the guys. Wild grins. Untamed hair. They look so happy it almost hurts.

I brush my thumb along the picture when a voice breaks the silence behind me.

“Kind of heavy, isn’t it?”

I jump, spinning on my heel, heart pounding.

Silas stands in the doorway, arms crossed, hair mussed, black tee hanging loose over old joggers. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. There’s a gravity to him—an old pain he doesn’t even bother hiding.

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” I say, suddenly feeling small.

He shrugs, stepping inside. “Snooping’s the only way people ever find the truth in this house.”

He moves like he belongs here—not cocky, just… claimed by the place. The air seems to shift around him, weighted with history.

We stand shoulder to shoulder, staring at the wall of gold.

“This was the dream once,” he says quietly, “before the label. Before contracts and drama. Just music. Just us.”

His eyes flick to me, studying. “You like it here?”

I hesitate. “I don’t know. It’s beautiful. But…”

“But it feels haunted?” he finishes, lips barely moving.

I nod. He sees it.

He huffs out a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “That’s ’cause it is.”

His gaze settles on the photo, shoulders slumping.

“You mean Jasper?” I ask softly. “Or… all of you?”

Silas’s eyes linger on those grinning faces. “Him. Me. The whole band, if I’m honest.” His voice is rough, carved with regret.

I lean against the old piano, arms folded. “He told me a little. About your mom. The group home. everything that happened with the dealers.”

The air tightens. Silas exhales slowly, scraping against old wounds. But he doesn’t pull back.

“He told you more than he tells most,” he admits, glancing sideways.

“I think he needed to say it out loud,” I whisper. “I’m glad he had you.”

He finally looks at me—really looks. The lines around his eyes deepen, and for a second, he’s not the drummer or the shadow. He’s just a brother who survived for someone else.

“Yeah,” he says, voice thick but steady. “I’m glad I had him too. Even when I wanted to give up.”

Silas studies me for another beat. “You’re good for him. For both of them.”

I duck my head, twisting the sleeves of Jasper’s jacket around my fingers. “I’m not so sure. I’m lost half the time. I don’t know how to be what they need.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t have to be anything. You already are.”