“This came to me last night,” he said. “After I saw him.”

Chapter 11 of Echoes In The Walls

_____

Avery returned to find the front door wide open.

The late afternoon sun spilled into the foyer, casting long golden beams across the marble floor. Her footsteps echoed as she stepped inside.

“Jett?”

No answer.

“Jett, it’s Avery. Can we talk?”

Still nothing.

She noticed the mirrors first. All of them covered. Sheets taped down, duct-taped in some cases. Not just draped, but sealed.

The house had the look of a crime scene in a haunted story — part mausoleum, part rehearsal space for someone who hadn’t played a note in a decade.

She moved through the house carefully, pausing in the studio, checking the living room, looking down the west wing hallway.

When she reached the forgotten room, the door was wide open.

Inside, the photos were gone.

The mattress had been dragged to the wall.

And in the corner — propped up against the window — sat Jett’s Stratocaster.

Dustless. As if freshly played.

Spooked, Avery backed out slowly and made her way upstairs.

She found him in the attic.

Sitting on the floor. Legs crossed. Notebook in his lap.

He didn’t look up. But he spoke as she entered.

“I remember the first song I ever wrote.”

She crouched nearby. “Yeah?”

“I was eleven. About a girl in school who didn’t know I existed. Called it ‘Open Wound Valentine.’”

A crooked smile touched his face.

“Total garbage.”

She smiled, but said nothing.

“I used to think the songs came from me. Now I think I was just a receiver. Like a radio. Something else was broadcasting and I happened to be tuned in.”

He looked up then. His eyes were clearer than they’d been in weeks.

“But then . . . I lost the signal.”

“No,” she said softly. “You got overwhelmed. That’s not the same.”

Jett held up a page from his notebook. Lyrics. Raw. Unfinished.

But new.

“This came to me last night,” he said. “After I saw him.”

Avery hesitated. “Who? The . . . the man in the mirror?”

He nodded. “He’s me. But not just older. He’s all the versions I buried. The addict. The liar. The one who didn’t apologize. The one who let Sierra leave and called it freedom.”

A silence passed between them.

“I’m not haunted by a ghost,” he said. “I’m haunted by the pieces I didn’t want to carry.”

Avery could feel her eyes filling up. “Then maybe it’s time to carry them.”

He looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time in weeks. “You stayed.”

“I wasn’t going to leave,” she said. “I just needed you to look at me, not through me.”

He nodded slowly.

“I want to finish the memoir.”

“Then let’s do it,” she said.

*     *     *

That evening, Jett took the sheets off one of the mirrors.

He stared at his reflection a long time.

It didn’t move first this time.

He did.

He raised his hand.

The reflection followed.

He smiled.

So did it.

Just like before.

But this time . . . he saw the difference.

The reflection was thinner. Tired. But it was his.

Just his.

*     *     *

At dinner, he sat with Maria and Kenneth.

No accusations. No cold silences.

He seemed lighter.

He thanked them both.

They didn’t ask why. He just did.

*     *     *

That night, alone in his bedroom, Jett picked up the Strat.

Plugged it in. No effects. Just a clean tone, straight into the amp.

He let his fingers find a chord.

Then another.

A melody came next — slow, mournful, but new.

He closed his eyes, and lightly sang:

I walked into a house of mirrors

And didn’t know which man was me

But now I see the cracks are windows

And the ghost was just a key.

Down the hall, the mirror stayed still.

No voices.

No footsteps.

Just silence.

And for the first time in a long time . . .

. . . Jett Vale was not afraid of it.

_____

© Secret Agent Man
info@secretagentman.net