Page 36

between beams and silence

KIERAN

" W hy do you pack like you’re emigrating, Bri?" Ryder huffs, wrenching open the boot of Dad’s taxi, hauling out bags like he’s moving a five-person family into a luxury resort. "You were in hospital for three fucking days, not off filming Survivor ."

Dad scoffs from inside the car, already unbuckling himself with a groan. "It’s the hospital, not a bloody spa retreat. And that bag’s got my good slippers in it. Don't bend them."

I stifle a laugh and move to the passenger side. The gravel crunches under my boots, the house casting a familiar silhouette in the late afternoon light.

My shoulders ease without me even noticing. "Alright, come on, old man," I say, offering a hand. "Let’s get you inside."

"I can walk just fine, thank you very much." He waves me off. "Lost an appendix, not a leg."

"Could’ve fooled us with the way you’ve been milking it," Ryder shouts from the porch.

Dad glares at him, but there’s a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Keep mouthing off and I’ll have you mucking out the stables first thing tomorrow."

"Is that a dare?" Ryder mutters, dragging the last bag through the front door with a dramatic thump.

I shake my head, laughing as I help Dad out of the car and up the steps, even though he’s pretending he doesn’t need the help.

He’s moving slowly, but he’s up, and he’s home.

Inside, Dad exhales as he sinks into his favourite armchair like it’s a throne. Well-earned and missed. His eyes flutter shut for a second, like being home is enough to ground him. "Ahh," he mutters, voice gravelly. "That’s more like it."

Ryder appears in the doorway, wiping invisible sweat from his brow. "Right. That’s my second good deed of the month. I expect food, appreciation, and at least one framed photo of me on the mantel."

Dad peeks one eye open. "You’ll get a sandwich and a clip on the ear if you’re lucky."

"Can’t wait."

I roll my eyes and head into the kitchen. The air smells faintly of lemon cleaning spray and something warm. I flick the kettle on, muscle memory kicking in, grabbing three mugs and lining up the tea bags. Just the right splash of milk in Dad’s—the way he likes it.

Halfway through making the tea, I glance out the window. Ryder’s in the garden, tossing a stick for Buddy like he thinks the bloody cat might chase it.

Spoiler: he won’t.

Buddy sits a few feet away, perched like the king he is judging a court jester, eyes half-lidded and unimpressed. I can practically hear his thoughts from here: You absolute clown.

I grin to myself, shaking my head as I bring the mugs into the living room. "Here you go," I say, handing Dad his. "The sacred blend."

He takes a sip and sighs, sinking deeper into his chair. "Mmm. Tastes like actual tea. That crap in the hospital tasted like it could’ve been brewed in a boot."

"Probably was," I smirk, collapsing onto the sofa opposite him.

Ryder saunters back inside, brushing stray bits of grass off his jeans. "Alright, I’ve got questions," he announces, pointing toward the backyard. "What’s with all the tools and that pile of wood near the fence? I nearly tripped over a rogue hammer. Are you secretly building a trebuchet, Bri?"

“Right… I’m not just gonna pretend I know what a trebuchet is. That a real thing or did you make it up?”

Ryder snorts. “Big arse catapult. Chucks boulders.”

“Ah.” I nod, slow. “So like… medieval Angry Birds?”

“You are painful , mate.” Ryder groans from across the room.

Dad chuckles, setting his mug down with a soft clink. "I’ve been working on the old barn. She’s seen better days. Thought I’d finally get round to fixing her up. Turn it back into proper storage space again."

He shifts in his chair, a little sheepish. "Progress has been... slow."

"Slow?" I echo, raising an eyebrow. "Dad, it’s been falling down since I was fifteen."

"And it’s still standing, isn’t it?" he shoots back, eyes twinkling.

Ryder flops into the armchair beside me with a theatrical groan. "That thing’s one gust of wind away from collapsing. What are you even planning to do with it?"

"Reinforce the structure, replace a few beams, lick of paint. Nothing fancy," he says, waving a hand. "I’ve got a plan."

I glance between him and Ryder and something sparks in my chest. "Well, lucky for you," I say, "you’ve just had two very capable, albeit questionably skilled, labourers delivered to your doorstep."

"I don’t like where this is going," Ryder mutters under his breath.

"Oh, come on," I nudge his leg with my foot. "We’re here, aren’t we? May as well make ourselves useful. We’ll get it sorted in no time."

"I didn’t sign up for a barn renovation, mate," he says flatly.

"Stop your whining. It’ll be fun."

"Unbelievable," he groans. "This is manual labour disguised as wholesome bonding."

I laugh, letting my head tip back against the sofa, taking in the scene.

Dad smirking into his tea. Ryder scowling half-heartedly.

The house creaking in the background like it’s breathing again.

I’ve got my dad. I’ve got Ryder. And we’ve got a crumbling barn that might just be a project worth throwing ourselves into.

The sun had long since set by the time I excused myself for the night, leaving Ryder and Dad still hunched over some makeshift blueprint for our impending barn renovations. Complete with Dad’s questionable sketches and Ryder’s expert-level sarcasm.

Their laughter follows me up the stairs, a low hum of something steady and good.

I push the door to my bedroom open, the hinges creaking like they always do, and step inside. It’s quiet in here. Peaceful.

I move to where my guitar rests against the wall. Lift it, and run my fingers over the strings once, then twice, feeling the vibrations settle into my chest.

I sit on the edge of the bed and start strumming. Nothing planned, just letting my hands move, following the sound wherever it wants to go. The chords are soft. Melancholic. Something between a memory and a question.

My mind drifts, and before I know it, Ellie’s face is there, hovering behind the notes. The image of her under the lights at the beach. Her laugh echoing over the music. The way she looked at me like I still mattered.

It’s been a little while since we talked. The last proper message was before everything with Dad went sideways. I meant to follow up. Meant to check in. But the timing was off, and then the days just kept folding into each other.

I set the guitar beside me and reach for my phone, thumb hovering over her name in my messages.

I hesitate, not because I don’t want to talk to her, but because I do. And I miss her. Not afraid to admit it.

Hey you. Miss catching up. How you doing?

I stare at the message for a second before hitting send, set the phone down on the nightstand, and pick up the guitar again—letting my fingers drift back over the strings.

The room fills with sound, the melody weaving itself around the quiet. I follow it wherever it wants to go. Notes turning sadder, a little more searching. A tune that says more than I know how to put into words.

I should be tired. I am tired. But the music keeps me anchored. Keeps the noise in my head from swallowing me whole.

Eventually, the sound blurs. My fingers slow. My eyelids droop, heavy with the kind of tiredness that isn’t just physical. It’s emotional. A weight I’ve been carrying for weeks now, long before Dad ended up in the hospital.

I lay the guitar on its stand and reach for the lamp when a knock sounds at the door. It creaks open, and Dad appears, silhouetted against the soft glow of the hallway light. "I’ve missed hearing that at all hours," he says, voice low and warm. "Whatever you’re playing. It’s good, son."

“Thanks, Dad.” I smile, surprised by the flicker of emotion that rises in my chest. "Just noodling around."

He leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You always did have a way of making even noodling sound like something more."

I shrug, trying to play it off. "Comes with the territory, I guess."

He watches me for a beat longer, then pushes off the frame. "Don’t stay up too late. We’ve got a barn to tackle in the morning, and I’m not carrying you and Ryder through the whole thing."

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

"Goodnight, son."

"Night, Dad."

He closes the door behind him, and the room settles back into quiet.

I flick off the lamp and the glow vanishes, replaced by the soft blue stretch of moonlight across the floorboards.

I slide beneath the covers and stare up at the ceiling.

Then, because I’m weak, I reach for my phone one more time.

Her name’s still there. The message marked as read.

Still nothing back.

I tell myself it’s nothing. She’s probably busy. Tired. Distracted. But something twists in my chest, anyway.

I close my eyes. And sleep, relentless and heavy, finally pulls me under. Ellie’s name still echoing somewhere between the last note and the first dream.

The next afternoon, Ryder and I are elbows-deep in the barn renovation project, which is looking less like a forgotten health hazard and more like something a person might choose to walk into.

It’s early October, and though the trees are turning, the sun’s pushing through the clouds like it’s still clinging to summer.

The air’s warm, humid even, and the heavy lifting has both of us sweating.

The scent of sawdust and cut pine fills the space, sunlight slanting in through the open barn doors in wide, golden streaks.

My shirt’s plastered to my back. Ryder’s hair looks like it lost a fight with gravity somewhere around hour two. Still, we’re making progress. And for the first time in a while, my head feels quiet.

It’s good being out here. Doing something with my hands. No pressure, no noise, no headlines. Just the ache of muscles, the scrape of timber, and Ryder’s endless complaints filling the air.