“No.”
Niamh looked up. “You okay?”
The first piano chord hit him like a bus.
Niamh padded in, still in her robe. “Did you sleep?” The Script - Discography -2008-2012-.torrent
For the first time in six months, he smiled.
He was seventeen again, sitting in his mum’s clapped-out Ford Fiesta, rain hammering the roof. She had just told him his father wasn’t coming back. The radio was playing “Breakeven.” He had cried so hard he didn’t notice the traffic light turn green three times.
He never seeded the torrent. Some ghosts shouldn’t be shared. But he kept one song—the B-side from 2012, the one about regret and rain—and sampled it into a lo-fi beat. That beat became his first solo demo. That demo got him an open mic slot. That open mic got him a nod from a small label. “Did you sleep
He didn’t copy the files to his main music folder. He didn’t burn them to a CD. Instead, he opened a fresh text file. Cursor blinking again.
“Did you write?”
By dawn, he had a verse and a chorus. It was raw. It was off-key in places. But it was his . The radio was playing “Breakeven
“It’s not stealing. It’s… research.” Leo clicked.
He autographed it with shaking hands. For the first time.
“Yeah,” he lied. “Just… forgot how heavy these songs were.”
That was Aoife. Summer 2011. They had danced on the beach in Howth until the guards told them to leave. She had laughed, and he had promised to write her a song one day. She left for Toronto two months later. He never wrote it.