Ghost Notes-Chapter 53: Wings Over Neon

Chapter 53: Wings Over Neon

Kael sat in the cluttered back room of Neon Roots' organizer's office, the city's late afternoon light filtering through a dusty skylight, mingling with the scent of old vinyl and fresh paint. His guitar rested against a chair, the leather strap's stars catching the glow, a tether to his mom's pride. The Pulse's fire still burned—Shatterpoint at thirty-three thousand listens, Flicker nearing twenty-two thousand, the stream at forty thousand views—but today's meeting, Lex's lead for the indie festival, was a new kind of stage. Weight of Wings, their soaring vow for Neon Roots in two weeks, hummed in Kael's mind, a firefly-winged promise against the weight of expectation.

Mira perched on a folding chair beside him, her borrowed guitar propped nearby, her scarf draped over her bag. Her sketchpad was tucked away, but Kael knew the firefly-woven wings were alive in her thoughts, a symbol of their flight. Her eyes were bright but edged with nerves, her parents' college push a shadow despite their growing pride. "This festival feels huge," she said, her voice low, fidgeting with her scarf. "Not just a club—a whole stage, Kael. Think we can keep it raw with so many eyes?"

Kael nodded, his pulse steady despite the knot in his chest. "We will. Shatterpoint, Pulse of the Possible, Weight of Wings—raw, just us. The city's with us, not against us." He thought of Veyl's Broken Signal, its call to hold truth, and Juno's text from this morning: "Neon Roots is your sky. Fly raw." 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 organizer, a wiry woman with neon-streaked hair named Zari, leaned across a cluttered desk. "Kael, Mira, you're the buzz. The Static, The Pulse—fans are calling you the city's wings. Neon Roots is small but loud—indie, no corporate strings. You in for a sunset slot?" Lex stood by the door, his notebook closed, his nod quiet but sure, their truce solid after The Pulse.

Mira's grin was shaky but fierce. "We're in," she said, her voice steady. "But it's our sound—raw, no polish. Guitars, voices, truth."

Zari grinned, her eyes sharp. "That's why we want you. No filters, just fire. Setlist by next week, soundcheck day-of. Deal?"

"Deal," Kael said, his voice sure, the weight of the festival settling but not crushing. He glanced at Mira, her nod mirroring his, the spark between them—friendship, something more—a steady rhythm.

Outside, the city was alive, dusk glinting off wet streets, a busker's harmonica weaving through the noise. Mira's grin widened, her shadow lighter. "A festival, Kael," she said, her voice thick. "We're flying." But her eyes flickered, her parents' pamphlets a lingering fault line. "They're coming to Neon Roots. They're proud, but... I heard my mom on the phone, talking about 'backup plans.'"

Kael's chest ached, her fear cutting deep, echoing his own—his mom's quiet warnings, his dad's ghost. He stopped walking, turning to her, his voice firm. "Your backup plan is you, Mira. Fireflies, Weight of Wings—that's your flight. Neon Roots is your stage, not their classroom." His hand found hers, the spark flaring, a rhythm that held them steady.

Mira's breath caught, a tear slipping free, but she squeezed his hand, her grin defiant. "Together," she said, her voice a vow, her eyes catching the neon like fireflies. "I'm not falling."

They sat on a nearby stoop, pulling out Kael's notebook to refine Weight of Wings. Mira hummed the bridge, her voice a quiet fire:

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

Kael added a chord in his mind, the notes painting silver and gold, a city soaring in the dusk. The song was raw, a vow to embrace their weight, echoing Juno's Iron Vein and Veyl's shadow. The stoop was their stage, the street their crowd, and Kael saw fireflies in every note, wings over neon.

Kael's phone buzzed—a text from his mom: "Pulse stream's magic. You're my sky, Kael. Keep soaring." His heart warmed, her faith a quiet anchor. Another buzz—a SoundSphere comment on The Pulse stream: "You're our wings, our fire. Neon Roots is next." Anonymous, maybe Veyl, maybe the city. He showed Mira, who laughed, her scarf slipping.

"That's us," she said, her voice steady. "Flying over neon."

Mira stood, pulling Kael up, her hand lingering in his, the spark a steady pulse. "Let's jam tomorrow," she said, her grin defiant. "Make Weight of Wings soar." The city sang—neon, rain, a street drummer's beat—and Kael felt its rhythm, ready to carry them to Neon Roots, firelit shadows dancing in their wake.

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, a light against the noise.

To be continued...

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