Page 42 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

abbey road

Seren

If ghosts exist, they live here. In the scuffed floorboards. The weight of silence between takes. The way even the air seems tuned to a key you can’t quite place.

Abbey Road isn’t just famous. It’s haunted. Not the spooky kind, with creaking doors and sheeted spirits, but the creative kind. Every wall hums with what’s come before. McCartney. Winehouse. Bowie.

And now I’m standing in the middle of Studio Two trying not to puke into my coffee. Outside spring has finally found London. It’s May, the trees are pinked and blushing, leaves unfurling, vibrant with life. Inside of me, a long hard frost is refusing to thaw.

“Just you for now?” The studio tech asks—early twenties, sharp haircut. His eyes flick away when I look at him, then back again.

“Just me. Mark’s on his way from the airport.”

He nods, fidgets with some settings on the board, and leaves me alone to “settle in.”

I don’t. I can’t.

This isn’t like the shop. There’s no dust to wipe, no stacks to alphabetise, no Simon to distract me with chaos and gossip magazines. This is just me and a piano and the thudding truth that I have no idea what I’m doing here.

My stomach churns.

The door swings open behind me.

“Bloody hell, it’s freezing out there.” A familiar voice, warm and West Coast mellow, slices through the air. “I forgot how miserable Britain can be when it’s pretending it’s spring.”

I turn. Mark’s comfortingly the same—low-slung jeans, lived-in hoodie, five-day stubble, eyes too kind. He smells faintly of jet lag and peppermint gum.

“You made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He dumps his backpack by the soundboard and walks over, offering a hand that turns into a brief, grounding hug. “How’re you holding up?”

“I’m fine.”

He gives me a look that makes it clear he knows I’m lying. Doesn’t push, though. Just gestures to the piano in the centre of the room.

“You been writing?”

“I’ve been avoiding.”

“At least you’re honest. That’s step one.”

He drops into the producer’s chair like he owns the place, already flicking through settings and loading a blank session on the screen. His fingers move fast, confident.

“I don’t know what I want this to be. I don’t even know if I want this at all.”

Mark leans back, arms behind his head, like we’ve got all the time in the world. “You don’t have to know yet. You just have to play.”

I sit at the piano. My fingers hover above the keys. I can feel my whole life backing up behind them. Every song I ever hated, every silence I ever filled with someone else’s sound. Every time I told myself it was safer to stay hidden.

I press the first chord .

It’s imperfect. A little raw. But it’s mine.

And for the first time in years, I don’t flinch from the sound.

We eat lunch on the floor. Mark claims it’s a “vibe” thing. Personally, I think it’s just because the couch smells vaguely like Durex and coffee.

The burrito’s falling apart in my hands—rice spilling onto my jeans, sauce hitting the corner of my mouth, and I’m too tired to care. I’ve barely eaten in two days, but this one tastes like actual food. Salty and hot and real.

Mark chews thoughtfully beside me, legs stretched out, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“So. Delicate. Understated. That sound of yours—it’s good.”

I pause mid-bite. He’s watching me too carefully.

“You mean I don’t sound like a pop star?”

“I mean you sound like you.” He shrugs. “It’s raw. Honest. That takes guts.”

I don’t respond. He tilts his head, gives me a sideways glance.

“It’s almost like you’ve finally stopped trying to sound like someone else’s ghost.”

The silence stretches. Then he says, too lightly: “Wonder what changed.”

I snap before I think. “Don’t mention him.”

Mark lifts both hands, still holding his burrito like a peace offering. “Not mentioning anyone.”

“Mm.”

I go back to chewing, jaw tight, stomach knotting again even though I’m starving.

“I hate him.”

Mark doesn’t reply. He just unwraps the rest of his burrito and lets the silence be what it is .

Eventually, I crumple the foil and stand. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The last track.”

I nod. There’s only one song left on the list. The one we wrote together.

I head back into the recording booth. The lights are low. The mic already on. I slip the headphones over my ears and close my eyes.

On the other side of the glass, Mark flicks a switch. My own voice plays back at me—just the guide vocal we laid down before I left LA. Just enough to remember the shape of the thing.

It’s soft. Melancholy. A little broken.

The piano creeps in, low and tentative. I tighten my grip on the headphones, breathe in through my nose, and open my mouth.

I sing.

And for the first time since Tokyo, I let it hurt.

When I step out of the booth, the air feels different.

Mark’s leaning against the far wall, watching through the glass. But it’s not him that stops me cold.

It’s my dad.

He’s standing just inside the control room door, arms folded, eyes glassy. There’s the shimmer of a tear tracking down his cheek, catching in the stubble at his jawline.

I freeze. “How long were you listening?”

He doesn’t answer straight away. Just shakes his head.

“You sound like her. And you. All at once.”

My throat tightens. “I’ll never be as good as Mum.”

Dad’s smile is wistful. Tired. “You’ve idolised her for so long.”

“Because she deserves it.”

He sighs. My stomach clenches .

“What?”

He hesitates.

“Dad...”

He still doesn’t look at me. “I won’t ruin what we have. Or your memories.”

My heart picks up speed. “But if you’re keeping secrets, that’s as bad as lying. And you know how I feel about both of those things.”

Beside us, Mark clears his throat awkwardly and grabs his coat. “I’ll... give you two a minute.”

He slips out quietly, and the door clicks shut behind him.

I cross my arms, waiting.

Dad leans against the mixing desk.

“Things with your mum... They were wild.”

“You’ve got the wrinkles to show for it.”

That earns a half-smile. Then it fades.

“It was just when the press were starting to change, into what they are now. Wild pack animals. Before the nineties, no one really cared where you ate dinner, or what club you went to. I mean, no one ever bloody printed a picture of McCartney eating a burger and chips in the sixties.”

My chest tightens. Harrison. Head down, always aware of who was looking, where the cameras might be.

“Suddenly private lives are fair game. Band arguments are headlines. Hotel locations. Family drama. All of it. There’s no room to be human anymore.”

“I know all this. It’s what Mum hid me from.”

He looks away. And then he says it. Quiet. But with that same brutal honesty I inherited from him.

“It was your mum who cheated, Seren. Not me.”

I blink. Cold breaks out across my arms like a rash.

“What?”

“She didn’t want you finding out. So she walked away.”

“From you?” My voice wobbles. “From everything? ”

“From everything that we were.” He says simply.

“But who...?” I can’t finish the question. I don’t want to know. My pulse is hammering behind my eyes.

“No. Don’t tell me.” But what I’m thinking is, please don’t let it be Uncle Fucking Vinny.

We stand there in the quiet. I wonder how many times my life, my understanding of my life, can implode.

“You see, love,” Dad says, his voice almost gentle now, “when you become famous, you get put on a pedestal. Like a fucking god. But all of us—we’re just human. We’re born, we bleed, and we die. Some of us are just lucky that we get to leave a loud sound in our wake.”

And somehow, I believe him. Even if it hurts. Even if it changes everything I thought I knew.

I don’t know what to say. What to do. So I do the only thing that makes sense.

I fling my arms around him.

He hugs me back tight. Bone-deep.

“Have you spoken to your sister yet?” he asks into my hair. I stiffen but he holds me tighter.

“Dad…”

“I’m an optimist, babe. Can’t help myself. Harrison shouldn’t have lied, love, he really shouldn’t.” He pulls back slightly to meet my gaze which I want to drop to my toes, but force to look back at him. “But I do understand it, him. Before I met Kimba?—”

“No! Let’s just stop there.”

He gives me his megastar grin and pulls me back in, nearly squeezing the life out of my bones.

When we finally pull apart, he sniffles and steps back, brushing a hand through his too-long fringe.

“Guess what.”

I eye him warily. “More revelations?”

He grins. “Guess who got the legend slot at Glasto? ”

“Haven’t you already headlined three times?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles, slinging his arm over my shoulders. “But now we’re legends, babe.”