The nights were starting to feel longer.
Zaylen sat cross-legged on the creaky wooden floor of his room, lit only by the soft glow of his laptop screen. The fan buzzed weakly overhead, slicing through silence like a dull blade. He hadn't made a new track in three days. Not because he couldn't—but because he wouldn't rush it.
Track 001: "Reentry"
Track 002: "Live & Looped"
Track 003: "No Signal Needed"
Each had been built from the ground up with care, emotion, and method. This wasn't just about releasing music—it was about being heard.
But Track 004?
He had a name penciled on his notebook—"Dead Frequencies"—but no sound. No lyrics. Just a concept swirling in static.
He could hear the ghost of it in his mind. A distant hum. A melody that hadn't formed yet. But something told him: this one had to hit deeper. This one had to mean something more.
---
7:12 AM – Morning Motions
Zaylen stretched his arms as he woke up to the crusty hum of his ancient alarm clock. His phone buzzed with some message from Joy about a cypher happening during lunch.
He didn't answer.
He liked Joy—her energy, her confidence—but that wasn't his scene. He wasn't about crowd battles or lunch table fame. Not yet. Not like this.
He wanted his music to do the talking first. And the talking had to be clear. No clout. No features. No distractions.
---
8:30 AM – School Hallways
Westhaven Arts Academy always looked like someone bottled chaos, shook it, and let it explode down the hallways. Students danced to loud bluetooth speakers, painters tapped their brushes in rhythm, and a DJ club tried to remix the morning announcements into trap intros.
Zaylen walked through it all like a ghost.
Hoodie up. Headphones on.
He wasn't anti-social. Just focused.
He caught fragments of conversations:
"Yo, did you hear that ZayKai dude?"
"SoundCloud one? The Reentry joint?"
"Yeah, dude's got something. But he lowkey don't talk to nobody."
Zaylen half-smirked.
---
10:42 AM – Music Lab
The music theory room smelled like coffee and decades of vinyl. Posters of Nina Simone, Prince, and Miles Davis lined the walls like guardians of the groove.
He sat in the back, notebook open, pretending to take notes.
In reality? He was sketching out the mood for Track 004:
Low fidelity static intro
Dark keys in C minor
Layered vinyl noise like memories
Lyrics about drowning in sound nobody hears
But something held him back.
No beat. No lyrics. Just… feelings.
He wasn't blocked. He was filtering.
---
3:15 PM – Bus Stop Solitude
The bus rumbled to a stop in front of his neighborhood. Kids laughed and play-fought on the sidewalk, but Zaylen walked alone, one strap of his backpack slung over his shoulder.
He hummed something quietly.
A chord progression.
Minor. Sad. Familiar.
He didn't know where it came from.
He reached into his pocket and hit the voice memo button on his phone.
🎤 "Hmm-mmm... Dead frequencies, still callin' me…" 🎤
He stopped. Deleted it.
Not ready yet.
---
4:02 PM – Room of Wires and Wishes
Home. Quiet. Safe.
He dropped his backpack, slid off his shoes, and powered on his Frankenstein studio setup. The screen flickered. His DAW booted up slowly, showing his last project files.
He clicked open Track 003: No Signal Needed, listened to a few seconds, then closed it.
He opened a blank file. Named it "???"
And stared.
Then clicked it shut.
He couldn't force it. This one had to come to him.
Instead, he opened a new note:
Checklist – Groundwork Before Next Track
[x] Redesign "vocal booth" with blanket fort
[ ] Sample mom's old cassette tapes
[ ] Record outdoor sounds from neighborhood
[ ] Save enough for new mic pop filter
[ ] Sketch concept art for EP cover
He wasn't just making music. He was building a world.
One layer at a time.
---
7:48 PM – Dinner Table Talk
His mom was scrolling through her phone while stirring spaghetti sauce.
"You still not doing any school clubs?" she asked.
Zaylen shrugged. "Don't really vibe with them."
"You still making that... SoundBox music?"
"SoundCloud," he corrected. "And yeah. All solo."
She gave him a nod. "Long as it's real to you."
That was all he needed to hear.
---
9:33 PM – Notebook Pages
The notebook pages were filling fast now. Not with full songs. But pieces. Fragments. Ideas.
Lines:
"I ain't quiet—I'm lowkey broadcastin'."
"They drop singles—I drop signals."
"Your hype fades. My hum stays."
Concepts:
A track made only with found sounds
Sampling old tapes with family memories
A hook with a stuttered melody like a skipping CD
But he hadn't pressed record yet.
Not because he couldn't.
But because he respected the process.
---
11:47 PM – Thought Loop
The room was dark again, save for the laptop's pulsing glow. A beat played on repeat. Not one he made. Just an old instrumental he found online. Something chill. Jazzy. Echoey.
He mumbled words under his breath. Low. Testing flows. No melody. Just rhythm.
But he didn't record.
He closed his eyes.
He wasn't ready to speak.
Not yet.
The fourth track would come.
When it did?
It wouldn't be rushed. It wouldn't be trendy. It wouldn't be compromised.
It would be him.
And until then?
He'd keep listening to the static.