Ghost Notes-Chapter 55: The Air Before the Flight

Chapter 55: The Air Before the Flight fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

Kael sat on a rusted folding chair in a cluttered sound booth at WavePulse Radio, the city's late morning light filtering through a smudged window, mingling with the scent of warm electronics and stale donuts. His guitar rested across his knees, the leather strap's stars catching the glow of a desk lamp, a tether to his mom's pride. Neon Roots was six days away, its sunset slot a blazing horizon—Shatterpoint at thirty-five thousand listens, Flicker nearing twenty-four thousand, The Pulse stream at sixty thousand views. Weight of Wings, their soaring vow, was ready, a firefly-winged hymn to their chosen dreams. Today's pre-festival radio slot, Lex's latest lead, was a chance to set the city alight before they took the stage.

Mira sat beside him on another chair, her borrowed guitar cradled, her scarf loosely knotted, her eyes a mix of fire and nerves. Her sketchpad was in her bag, but Kael knew the neon sky with firefly wings was alive in her thoughts, a symbol of their flight. "This feels like the calm before the storm," she said, adjusting her mic, her voice low. "Neon Roots is huge, Kael. My parents are coming, and I want them to see me soar, but I'm scared they'll still see a kid with a guitar, not... me." Her parents' college push lingered, their pride growing but shadowed by pamphlets.

Kael nodded, his pulse steady despite the knot in his chest. "They'll see you, Mira. Fireflies, Weight of Wings—that's you, burning bright. This radio slot, Neon Roots—it's your sky, not their plans." He thought of Veyl's Broken Signal, its call to hold truth, and Juno's text from this morning: "Radio's your spark. Light the fuse for Neon Roots." His dad's Blue Shift tape, tucked in his pocket, was a quiet strength, its chords a reminder of what he'd chosen to keep.

The host, the same warm-voiced woman from their first WavePulse session, leaned in from the control booth. "Kael, Mira, you're live in ten. City's buzzing for Neon Roots—give us a taste." Lex stood in the corner, his notebook closed, his nod quiet but sure, their truce solid after The Pulse.

Mira's grin was shaky but fierce. "No choking," she whispered, echoing their stage vow.

"No choking," Kael said, his hand brushing hers, the spark between them—friendship, something more—a steady rhythm. The light blinked on, and the host's voice crackled through.

"WavePulse here, with Kael and Mira, the city's rawest fire, days away from Neon Roots. Tell us about your flight."

Kael leaned into the mic, its metal cool. "We're just Kael and Mira," he said, his voice clear. "Guitars, voices, truth. Shatterpoint's about breaking through, Weight of Wings's about flying with the weight of dreams. Neon Roots is our sky, raw and real."

Mira nodded, her voice steady. "It's about choosing what's true, even when it's heavy. Fireflies, Pulse of the Possible—they're us, fighting doubt, fighting noise. We're ready to soar." Her eyes met Kael's, a spark flaring, her fear buried under fire.

The host smiled. "Let's hear Shatterpoint."

Kael strummed, the chord raw and piercing, painting crimson and violet in his mind. His voice followed, rough but alive:

"I'm running blind, I'm breaking glass / Tearing through what doesn't last..."

Mira's harmony wove in, fierce and clear, their voices tangling like city rain. The booth shrank to their sound, no crowd but the city's ears—drivers, dreamers, baristas—listening. Kael leaned into the flaws—his voice cracking, the strings buzzing—each imperfection a spark.

They shifted to Weight of Wings, Kael leading, his chords soaring:

"Wings of fire, we're rising high / Carrying dreams beneath the sky..."

Mira's harmony soared, tender but fierce, their voices a vow against her parents' leash, the world's pull. The host nodded, eyes wide, and Kael felt the city's pulse—neon, rain, a busker's riff—in every note.

The session ended, the host clapping. "That's fire," she said. "Neon Roots is yours." Lex gave a quiet thumbs-up, his respect clear.

Outside, the city was alive, noon sun glinting off wet pavement, a street violin's hum weaving through the noise. Mira's grin was wide, her shadow lighter. "We're ready, Kael," she said, her voice thick. "I felt it—the city's with us."

"Yeah," Kael said, his heart full. But her parents' pamphlets loomed, a fault line he feared might crack. "You okay for Neon Roots? Your parents..."

Mira's grin faltered, but her eyes were fierce. "They're coming, but I'm not theirs to pull. Weight of Wings is my truth. I'm flying." She grabbed his hand, her grip steady, the spark flaring. "Together?"

"Always," Kael said, his fingers lacing with hers, the touch a vow. His phone buzzed—a SoundSphere comment on the radio clip, already posted: "You're our wings, our fire. Neon Roots is yours." Anonymous, maybe Veyl, maybe the city. He showed Mira, who laughed, her scarf catching the breeze.

"That's us," she said, her voice a vow. "Ready to fly."

Kael tucked his dad's tape deeper, its ghost a quiet ally. Neon Roots loomed, Mira's parents closer, but Weight of Wings was their promise, raw and unbroken, ready to claim the sky.

To be continued...