---
The world didn't end when Aiden played that riff in the park.
It just... shifted.
A centimeter to the left. A breath off center. Enough that, if you were paying attention, you'd notice something wasn't quite the same.
The silence had been touched.
Bruised.
Awake.
---
He rewatched the video again.
For the fifteenth time.
The grainy footage showed a boy with a borrowed amp, four strings, and no plan — just a guitar in hand and a storm in his chest.
And then the riff hit.
> DUN-DUN… DUN DUN DUN DUN.
The speakers had barely survived it. His voice hadn't even been part of the recording — just the chords of Smells Like Teen Spirit, crashing through the Vireya park like a riot in a museum.
And somehow, it made its way online.
Uploaded to a minor, decentralized media app. No editing. No hashtags. No filters. Just raw, violent clarity.
Now it had over 180 views.
That wasn't viral.
But it was real.
---
He leaned back against the apartment wall, guitar across his chest like a heartbeat he could tune by hand.
The view counter refreshed.
> 187.
Not bad for a glitch in a perfect world.
---
The comments were still coming in. Slowly. Carefully. Like people weren't sure they were allowed to respond.
> 🗨️ "Did anyone else feel that in their bones?"
> 🗨️ "Was this... angry? Or alive?"
> 🗨️ "I think I liked it. I think I needed it."
Aiden smiled. Not wide. Just enough to feel something tug at the corner of his mouth.
He didn't want to be a viral star.
He wanted to be a spark.
---
If that riff was a match strike — then it was time to start gathering wood.
---
The next morning, he opened VibeNet.
He hadn't planned to. But the idea had been haunting him like a low drone in the walls — an itch he couldn't scratch unless he said something louder than a chord.
VibeNet wasn't like the other platforms.
This one was polished. Sanitized. Safe.
It had become the internet's go-to destination for "emotionally balanced audio content." A place where artists created music designed not to provoke but to soothe.
No tension.
No surprise.
No bite.
And that was exactly why Aiden chose it.
Because it was hostile to what he was about to do.
---
> Create Your Channel
The cursor blinked, patient and soft.
He hovered his fingers above the name field.
> "Pick a name that reflects your tone, your mood, your music."
He typed:
> Unknown Sound
No caps lock. No all-caps anger. Just truth.
Then the bio section opened, auto-filled with smiling prompts:
> "Welcome to my sonic sanctuary! Here to relax, recharge, and realign your energy."
He deleted it.
Typed:
> For what the world forgot.
He paused.
Then added nothing else.
Some truths needed room to breathe.
---
He uploaded a six-second clip.
Just the amp warming up — that electrical hiss right before the feedback hum.
> Unknown Sound I – Wake
No melody. No rhythm.
Just potential.
---
He didn't expect views.
He expected resistance. Algorithms. Pushback. Maybe silence.
But the next day, someone had commented.
> 🗨️ "This gave me goosebumps. Is that... wrong?"
Aiden laughed — genuinely — for the first time in weeks.
---
He began recording more.
Not songs. Not covers.
Just moments.
The click of a metal string against callused skin.
The warble of a slightly off-tune bend.
The whisper of a pick dragging across wood.
Each one ugly. Beautiful. Real.
> Unknown Sound II – Wire Breath
Unknown Sound III – Hand Tremor
He didn't EQ the recordings. Didn't compress them. Didn't autotune. The files hissed, popped, and sometimes clipped at the edges.
But they were honest.
---
The views stayed low.
Forty-seven. Sixty-two. Eighty-four.
But the comments were growing stranger. And truer.
> 🗨️ "It sounds like memory. Or maybe mourning?"
> 🗨️ "This made me want to punch the sky."
> 🗨️ "Why does it make me ache?"
Aiden stared at the screen, stunned.
No one had ever asked these questions of a guitar scratch before.
But somehow, the silence of the city had made people forget that music could hurt in a good way.
---
One comment came in private.
Not a bot. Not spam.
A name: Nova_Signal
> 📩 "I heard the park video. Now this. You're not just uploading — you're confessing."
> "Have you ever sung?"
That last line echoed in Aiden's mind long after he closed the screen.
---
He had sung.
Once.
Years ago, on the other side of whatever veil separated this version of Earth from the one with power chords and sweat and roaring stadiums.
He remembered broken microphones. Sticky floors. The way a lyric felt when it came from your throat, not just your mind.
But here… no one sang.
They hummed. Whispered. Tuned their voices to frequencies that wouldn't jostle your nervous system.
Aiden's voice didn't belong here.
And that was exactly why he had to use it.
---
That night, he opened a new folder.
Titled it:
> The First Song
And inside it, a single document.
No backing track. No layers. Just the name of the song he already knew he had to do first.
> Nothing Else Matters – Metallica
He stared at it like scripture.
It was a song about loyalty. Distance. Surrender. Defiance.
He hadn't listened to it in years. But the melody still lived in his hands.
> So close… no matter how far...
He plucked the first chord.
Just softly.
It was a lullaby that didn't soothe.
A love letter to freedom.
He didn't press record yet.
But he would.
Soon.
---
The world wasn't ready.
But the silence was listening.
And something was starting to remember.