Chapter Thirteen: Bridges Made of Music
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1 Smoke & Sunrise
CJ awoke to a muted Nairobi dawn, the horizon blushing coral behind corrugated rooftops. He lay tangled in a blanket on Shantel's tiny studio-floor mattress. The scent of burnt coffee drifted in from the kitchenette; Shantel, already sketching by the window, had forgotten the kettle again.
Soft graphite ticks marked the silence. When CJ sat up, she glanced back, eyes bright despite the dawn's hush.
"Morning, verse-boy."
"Morning, muse-girl." He padded over, wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pressed a kiss into the crook of her neck. She smelled of pencil shavings and lavender hair oil—an aroma that felt like home and possibility.
Her sketchbook showed a half-finished drawing of three silhouettes on a bridge at sunset: two holding hands, one slightly apart, all facing the same river of light. Blaze's crooked profile was unmistakable.
"He called again," Shantel murmured. "From rehab in Karen. He asked if we'd visit."
CJ's heartbeat synced with the kettle's frantic click. "Do you want to?"
She nodded slowly. "He's drowning in guilt. I can feel it through the phone."
CJ exhaled. Two months ago he'd have answered with fists. Now? Every angry bar he'd ever written about Blaze felt small beside the hospital monitors and his mother's fragile breaths.
"Let's go," he said. "But after breakfast. A queen can't counsel a king on an empty stomach."
Shantel laughed and kissed him, coffee forgotten, sunrise swallowing them both.
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2 Rehab & Revelations
The Karen Serenity Centre sat on a hill fringed by eucalyptus, cicadas humming invisible melodies. Blaze—no. Brian, again—was waiting under a jacaranda whose petals matched the bruises fading beneath his eyes.
He looked smaller without the swaggering hoodie and chain, wearing rehab-issue sweatpants and a nervous smile.
"Thanks for coming," he said, voice hoarse but honest. "Group ends at noon, but I told my counselor I needed… closure."
Shantel offered him a thermos of ginger tea; CJ extended a fist. Brian bumped it like the old days, eyes glassy.
They walked the garden paths, three hearts beating awkward syncopation.
"I wrote something," Brian said, reaching into his pocket for a folded paper. "First sober verse. No threats, no ego. Just truth."
He read, voice trembling:
> "I traded pain for applause
but the echoes were hollow;
I traded friends for a crown
but the throne stood solo.
Now I stitch broken beats
with the silence I borrowed—
Learning love is the anthem,
and redemption the chorus I follow."
The breeze carried the last line across the lawn. Shantel wiped her cheek; CJ's chest ached with a familiar pride.
"BarCode," CJ whispered, the name tasting like childhood.
Brian nodded. "I'm not asking to join your stage. Just… forgiveness."
CJ set a hand on his shoulder. "Forgiveness isn't a stage pass. It's a bridge. And bridges hold more weight than crowns."
Brian's eyes shone. "Then let me help build another one." He produced a battered flash drive. "Beats I made in therapy sessions. For your debut album—if you want them."
Shantel took it gently. "A verse from a heart that's healing? That's priceless, Brian."
For the first time, he smiled without the chipped-tooth sneer—just a quiet, grateful curve.
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3 Studio Sparks
That evening at Tico's revamped studio—fresh acoustic panels, borrowed ribbon mics—the crew gathered. Laughter ricocheted off walls still smelling of new paint and late-night pizza.
CJ slid Brian's flash drive into the laptop. A beat emerged: gentle piano over muted snares, a sample of rainfall tucked beneath. It felt like regret and dawn.
Shantel closed her eyes, humming a melody of hope. CJ scribbled lyrics so quickly the ink threatened to tear the page:
> "I was forged in the furnace of street-lamp scars,
But love cooled the metal into tuneful bars.
Now every breath my mother takes,
Every line my lover makes,
Turns rust into gold—
And mistakes into stars."
Shantel's hook floated above the chords, a whispered promise:
> "If the night grows heavy, borrow my light;
We'll paint the dark with lullabies."
Tico pressed record; Lulu layered breathy harmonies; Charles tapped congas; James captured field sounds from the balcony—matatu horns, vendors calling chapati-mbili—wrapping Nairobi's pulse around the track.
When the final note faded, no one spoke. The monitor showed a six-minute waveform that looked like a mountain range and felt like sunrise.
Tico broke first: "That's track one."
CJ met Shantel's gaze, hearts thudding in perfect tempo. Romance, he realized, wasn't just kisses on rooftops—it was building something that could outlive them both.
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4 Moonlit Confession
Later, they slipped out for fresh air, wandering to the pedestrian bridge that spanned the dusty railway. Moonlight silvered the rails, choking vines glowing ghost-white.
CJ leaned against the railing, fingers laced with Shantel's. "Do you ever fear we're moving too fast?"
She rested her head on his shoulder. "Fast? Maybe. But not reckless. Fast is just the tempo of our hearts."
He chuckled. "You always answer in poetry."
"And you always understand it," she countered, lifting his hand to her lips.
Below them, a lone freight train rattled by, sparks spraying like cheap fireworks.
"Brian's verse hit me," CJ said. "How close I came to his path if you hadn't sketched me back from the edge."
Shantel shifted to face him, moonlight streaming across her braids. "You saved yourself, CJ. I just handed you the mirror."
He cupped her cheeks. "Then look into mine."
She did, eyes wide, absorbing the city's glow, the ache of past pain, the promise of unwritten choruses.
"I love you," he said. Simple, steady, no beat drop necessary.
Her smile spread slow as dawn. "You just turned silence into the sweetest melody."
Their kiss tasted of ginger tea and graphite dust, of rooftops, hospital corridors, and new verses waiting in the dark.
And somewhere far off, in a rehab dorm lit by a single reading lamp, Brian—pen in trembling fingers—wrote another apology line ending in hope.
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5 Coda: Bridges & Beats
Three days later the new single, "Bridges Made of Music," hit streaming apps. It credited CJ x Shantel featuring Brian "Blaze" Omondi — Rehab Session Mix.
Listeners flooded comment sections with fire-emoji baptisms and teary confessionals. In Umoja Estate, nurses streamed it for Mama, her oxygen hiss syncing with Shantel's lullaby hook.
Across Nairobi, street kids rapped along, their football thuds the song's perfect drumline.
And on that pedestrian bridge at twilight, fresh graffiti bloomed:
> "LOVE BUILDS THE LOUDEST BEATS."
No tag, no crew name—just a crown drawn in lavender spray, a headphone pendant shining beneath.
CJ and Shantel saw it on their nightly walk, fingers entwined.
"Looks like our story's already writing itself on the city," CJ whispered.
Shantel squeezed his hand. "Then let's keep giving it ink."
They stood there until the stars blinked on, two artists bathed in nocturnal glow, the wind riffing through their hair like a gentle chorus.
Somewhere, studio lights waited, blank pages waited, a mother's heartbeat waited.
And three hearts—once fractured, now fused in music—kept time to a single, hopeful rhythm.
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