Chapter 3

The late afternoon sun dipped low, casting a warm amber glow over the cluttered studio apartment where Hana sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a tangle of audio cables and half-empty coffee mugs. Her headphones rested around her neck, the faint hum of static a constant companion. She’d been tweaking the same track for hours, a melancholic synth melody that mirrored the ache she couldn’t quite name. Ever since moving into this crumbling old building, her ability to hear the heartbeat frequencies of others had grown sharper—too sharp, sometimes. The woman downstairs thrummed with a jittery, anxious beat; the delivery guy who’d passed her in the hall pulsed with a tired, resigned rhythm. Everyone’s inner world was an open book to her, whether she wanted to read it or not.

Everyone, that is, except him.

Kaito. The neighbor in 4B. She’d seen him only twice since he’d moved in a week ago—once when she’d nearly tripped over a box of his belongings in the hallway, and again when he’d held the rickety elevator door for her with a curt nod. He was tall, with sharp features softened by a mess of dark hair that fell into his eyes, and a quiet intensity that seemed to pull the air taut around him. But his frequency? Silent. Not a murmur, not a whisper. It was as if he existed outside her strange, invasive gift, a void where sound should have been. It unnerved her. It fascinated her.

Hana sighed, rubbing her temples, and reached for her notebook. She’d started jotting down observations about Kaito, half out of curiosity, half out of frustration. *Day 3: Saw him carrying a guitar case. No sound. Day 5: Heard him arguing with someone on the phone through the wall. Voice low, angry. Still nothing.* She tapped her pen against the page, then scribbled, *Day 7: Why can’t I hear him?* The question gnawed at her, a discordant note in the symphony of her thoughts.

A sudden, sharp knock at her door jolted her from her reverie. She froze, heart thumping, the sound of her own frequency—a skittish, erratic trill—filling her ears. No one knocked on her door. Ever. She wasn’t exactly the social type, and her neighbors mostly kept to themselves. Hesitant, she padded over and peered through the peephole.

Kaito stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of a worn leather jacket, his expression unreadable. Her stomach did a little flip, a mix of nerves and something warmer, unbidden. She cracked the door open, just enough to peek out.

“Uh… hi?” Her voice came out smaller than she’d intended.

“Hey.” His tone was clipped, but not unkind. “You’re the music producer, right? I’ve heard stuff through the wall. Beats, loops, whatever.”

Hana blinked, heat creeping up her neck. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry if it’s loud. I try to keep it down—”

“It’s fine.” He cut her off, shifting his weight. “I’m not here to complain. I need help with something. Audio-related. You free?”

Her mind raced. Help? From her? She barely knew how to string two sentences together around strangers, let alone assist with… whatever this was. But there was a flicker of something in his dark eyes—urgency, maybe, or desperation—that made her nod before she could overthink it.

“Sure. Come in.”

He stepped inside, his presence filling the small space in a way that made her hyper-aware of every cluttered corner, every unwashed mug. He glanced at the mess of equipment on her desk, then at her, and for a moment, she swore she caught a ghost of a smirk. “You live in chaos, huh?”

“It’s organized chaos,” she muttered, crossing her arms defensively. “So, what do you need?”

Kaito pulled a small USB drive from his pocket and held it out. “I’ve got a recording on here. It’s… personal. I need to clean it up, strip out some background noise, maybe layer in a track or two. I don’t have the gear—or the know-how. Can you do it?”

Hana took the drive, her fingers brushing his for the briefest second. A shiver ran through her, not from the touch, but from the continued absence of his frequency. It was like standing next to a black hole, all sound swallowed into nothingness. She cleared her throat. “Yeah, I can take a look. What’s on it?”

His jaw tightened, just enough for her to notice. “Doesn’t matter. Just fix it. I’ll pay you for the trouble.”

She wanted to press, to ask why his hands were clenched at his sides, why his gaze darted away from hers. But she didn’t. Instead, she plugged the drive into her laptop and opened the file. A grainy audio clip played—two voices, one his, low and heated, the other a woman’s, sharp and pleading. The words were muffled, but the emotion wasn’t. Anger. Hurt. Something raw and jagged. Hana’s chest tightened, her own frequency stuttering in response, though she couldn’t hear his.

“I’ll… I’ll work on it,” she said softly, not meeting his eyes. “Might take a day or two.”

“Thanks.” He lingered for a moment, as if weighing whether to say more, then turned to leave. At the door, he paused. “Hey. What’s your name?”

“Hana,” she replied, surprised by the question.

“Kaito.” He gave a small nod, almost imperceptible. “Don’t listen too closely to that file, alright? It’s not your business.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her in the quiet of her apartment, the weight of the USB drive heavy in her hand. She shouldn’t listen. She knew that. But as she sat back down at her desk, the temptation clawed at her. Not just to hear the words, but to understand why his silence—his lack of a frequency—felt like a challenge, a puzzle she couldn’t solve.

Over the next few hours, Hana cleaned up the audio, filtering out the static and amplifying the voices. She tried to focus on the technical side, to ignore the content, but snippets slipped through. “You can’t keep running, Kaito.” “I’m not running, I’m done.” “What about us?” The woman’s voice broke on that last word, and Hana’s fingers faltered on the keyboard. She pulled off her headphones, breathing hard, guilt prickling at her skin. She shouldn’t have heard that. But now she had, and the mystery of Kaito only deepened.

The next evening, she knocked on his door, the edited file saved on the drive. When he answered, he looked… tired. Shadows under his eyes, a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. She held out the USB. “It’s done. Noise is gone, added a subtle backing track to smooth it out. Hope that’s okay.”

He took it, his fingers brushing hers again, and this time, she thought she felt something—a tremor, a ghost of a sound. But it was gone before she could grasp it. “Thanks, Hana. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Just… don’t be a stranger, okay?” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and she cringed inwardly. Why had she said that?

Kaito raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Alright. Not a stranger. Got it.” Then, softer, “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She hesitated, the weight of her gift pressing against her ribs. She wanted to ask—why can’t I hear you? Why are you a void when everyone else is a song? But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she shook her head. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. “Get some rest, then. And… thanks again.”

As she turned to leave, a faint sound stopped her—a low, resonant hum, so fleeting she might have imagined it. Her breath caught, eyes widening as she glanced back at Kaito. He was already closing the door, oblivious to the storm in her mind. Had she heard it? His frequency? Or was it just her desperate imagination, filling in the silence?

Hana stood in the dim hallway, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm, and knew one thing for certain: Kaito was a mystery she couldn’t ignore. Not anymore.