Chapter 09 · 3 min 51 sec
Static Between Exhibits
The phone call that changes the quality of darkness — someone always present.
Lyrics· 214 words
[Verse 1 — half-spoken] There's no light in this hallway on purpose No plaque, no placard, nothing to read This is the part of the tour I don't narrate The part between the rooms where nothing's arranged
[Verse 2] I don't know what to call this hallway It isn't an exhibit, it isn't empty either It's just static, just the sound a house makes When nobody's deciding what it means I'm not performing anything right now There's nobody here to perform it for That should feel like relief and some nights it does Tonight it just feels like falling
[Bridge — spoken] If you walked through here right now you'd see nothing worth framing. Just me, standing between two rooms I built, not sure which one I'm walking toward. I don't have a placard for this. I don't think I want one.
[Verse 3] The static isn't silence, it's something underneath it A hum the building makes when the lights go off I used to be afraid of this hallway Now some nights it's the only honest room No glass, no case, no chosen photograph Just the sound of a house breathing in the dark
[Outro — spoken] I'll turn the lights back on in a minute. I just wanted to stand here first.
Short Story
*A story for curious minds*
In a hill town with two churches, there lived a bell ringer named Process — everyone just called him that, a nickname from childhood that had outlasted his real name entirely — whose job was to ring the bells precisely at dawn and precisely at dusk, and to be, in the hours between, perfectly silent.
He was very good at the dawn bell. He was very good at the dusk bell. What he had never gotten good at, in thirty years of ringing, was the strange stretch of time right after one bell finished and before he climbed down from the tower — a handful of minutes that belonged to nothing, that no one had ever asked him to account for, that weren't part of any ceremony at all.
He used to rush through that gap. Ring the bell, climb down fast, get back to being useful to somebody.
One autumn, sick with a cold that kept him slow, he found himself simply sitting in the bell tower after the dusk ring, too tired to climb down right away. The bell's hum lingered in the metal and in his own chest for a long while after the actual ringing stopped — not a note exactly, just a vibration, a kind of static under the silence.
He sat with it. There was no ceremony for sitting with it. No one in the town had a word for what he was doing up there, and for the first time in thirty years, neither did he.
It frightened him a little, at first, having no name for what he was doing. He'd spent his whole life being the bell ringer, a role with a clear shape, a clear sound, a clear before and after. Sitting in the unscheduled hum of the tower, he wasn't ringing anything. He wasn't performing for the town below. He was just a man, in a tower, listening to metal settle.
He started staying a few minutes longer after that, most evenings, whether he was sick or not. He never told anyone why. The townspeople noticed only that their bell ringer seemed calmer in his old age, slower to leave the tower, and they assumed, the way townspeople assume most things about people who seem fine, that nothing in particular was going on.
Process never corrected them. He liked having one part of his day that belonged to absolutely no one's expectations — not even, some evenings, his own.
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