The apartment was—put mildly—a disaster. It reeked of instant noodles, unwashed laundry, and stale takeout.
Rhys sat slouched in his chair, surrounded by the chaos, staring blankly at the glowing screen in front of him. His favorite game, Guiding Light, idled on the monitor—its haunting soundtrack playing softly in the background. A game renowned for its endless web of choices and consequences, where nearly every decision led to one of its many grim endings.
Tonight—or rather, this morning—he had completed them all. Every branching path. Every possibility. Every ending.
And now, with the final cutscene fading to black, he felt nothing. Just a hollow stillness settling in his chest.
It was a familiar feeling. That strange, disorienting emptiness that comes after finishing something you love. After pouring hours, days, even weeks into it. After giving it everything—and realizing there's nothing left to do.
Rhys reached for another bottle on his desk. Empty. With a soft click of his tongue, he tossed it carelessly toward the growing mountain of clutter—discarded takeout containers, beer cans, tangled blankets, and shirts that hadn't seen a wash in weeks.
He wasn't always like this.
Once—a long time ago.
Rhys was dancing enthusiastically to his mother's performance at a past concert she had.
"You really liked that song that much?" Asked his mother. She already retired from singing, and married to have a family, so looking back at her past performances was a bit embarrassing.
"Of course! If it's you who sings it mom, then it's automatically amazing!"
Rhys points to his mother with a determined look in his eyes "That's why I'll become a singer one day and continue your legacy mom!"
"You don't have to be a singer just because i am, I'd prefer if you just do whatever that you love."
"No! I will become a singer, a great one that'll make everyone's jaw drops from how excellent my singing is!"
"Alright, how about this? There's a singing competition that'll be held next month in your school, if you get first place, I'll transfer you to a school specifically for singing. What do you say?"
Rhys's eyes lights up with excitement "Yes! Yes! Yes! Promise? You gotta promise!"
"Promise." His mother replied.
Rhys was excitedly going back home to practice singing with his mother, ever since making that promise, she has been teaching him how to better sing. Although he wasn't particularly talented in singing, there's always a first time to everything.
Rhys got back home and immediately goes to his mother's bedroom, only to find it empty inside.
'She must still be at work' and so,
He waited.
And waited.
But nobody came.
His mother had died in a car accident, leaving him to live with his uncle. At first, Rhys didn't know what to feel.
It all just feels so... sudden. He didn't know if he wanted to cry or to complain. He didn't know.
His uncle tried to comfort him but Rhys was too confused to even process his mother's sudden death.
Rhys still remembered their promise, and Rhys decided to honor his mother's memories by getting the first place in the competition.
He was confident he'd win. After all, he's been training his voice to the max for this moment. If he didn't win, then what was the point of his efforts?
And so he sang with all his might, expertly tuning his voice to match the song's themes.
But when he thought that he could secure first place- someone talented showed up.
They expertly pushed their voice to the point of cracking and leaning into that crack to invoke a more raw and vulnerable tone of voice, skillfully sighing into a note and making their breath as a part of the instruments.
To say their performance was perfect would be an understatement. They blew the judges mind, they were astonished and admired the kid's expertise in incorporating many difficult vocal techniques into one song.
Unfortunately for Rhys, after the competition ended, he didn't even get second place. He ranked third.
Rhys stared at the ground, not being able to speak. What was all the effort he put into his training for? What of his promise?
Unable to process any of the emotions- he simply cried.
After that day, Rhys began to shrink from the world.
What started as a temporary retreat became his way of life. Even as he grew older, got a job, and moved into his own apartment, the habits remained. He only went out when he absolutely had to—commutes, groceries, work. That was it.
His room became a cocoon, dim and cluttered, sealed off from the outside. The only light that escaped spilled faintly from the bottom of his door—the cold, flickering blue of his monitor screen.
His days followed a quiet, unchanging rhythm: wake up, work, come home, play games until late, sleep.
When faced with decisions, he always took the path of least resistance.
Simple. Safe. Predictable.
Why risk chasing a dream that had already hurt him once? Why reach for something that might never reach back?
And yet—some nights—his hand would drift across the room, and he'd pick up his old guitar. Fingers stiff from disuse would clumsily fumble through familiar chords. He never played long. Just enough to remember what it used to feel like. The strings still hummed with memories, even if his voice didn't follow.
He had a decent job, stable income, friendly coworkers. On paper, life was good. Respectable, even. But beneath the surface was a dull, persistent ache. A silence that not even the best game soundtrack could fill.
Most weekends, he barely left his apartment. He'd scroll through his music library, lose himself in the songs that once made his heart race. And every so often, he'd let himself wonder—just for a second—what it might feel like to create a song like that.
Something that mattered. Something that could live in someone else's ears the way music had always lived in his.
But then he'd shake the thought away.
He didn't have the talent. Or the drive. Or the courage.
It was just a dream. A childish one.
That was what he told himself.
Until he met the old man.
The old man always sat at the same spot—on a bench by the sea bridge near Rhys's apartment. He'd stare out at the ocean, murmuring advice or life stories to passing strangers with a warm smile and eyes like softened glass. Rhys had passed by him many times on his walks, always pretending not to hear.
But one day, something made him stop.
He didn't know why. Maybe it was the way the old man spoke that day, as if he wasn't talking to anyone in particular—just offering his words to the wind. Words about dreams, about regret, about wasted chances and the cost of silence.
Rhys stood there for a moment longer than usual. Then he kept walking.
In truth, it was never about lack of talent. That had always been a convenient excuse. A story he could live with.
The real reason ran deeper.
He was afraid.
Afraid of being judged.
Afraid of not being good enough.
Afraid of that same feeling—the one that crushed him the day he broke his promise to his mother.
Rhys never stopped wanting to sing. Never stopped wanting to be someone—a voice worth listening to.
He just buried that want beneath layers of noise. Games. Work. Routine.
It was easier to live in the quiet than to risk being heard.
The bridge overlooked the sea, quiet and undisturbed except for the gentle wind and the waves brushing the rocks below.
Rhys found himself here more often than he wanted to admit.
He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the sound of the water. Maybe it was the way the wind filled the silence he always carried with him. Or maybe… it was the old man who always sat on the bench nearby, humming tunelessly while watching the horizon.
Today, the old man spoke first.
"You've got music in your soul, boy," he said without turning. "But you carry it like a burden."
Rhys blinked, unsure whether to laugh or walk away. "What, are you one of those prophetic NPC's or something?"
The old man chuckled. "Just old. Not blind. You hum when you think no one's listening."
Rhys scratched the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't hum."
"You do," the old man replied, calm and certain. "But it's the kind of humming that sounds like you're apologizing for it."
Rhys didn't respond.
After a pause, the old man spoke again. "You know, I used to be a woodcarver."
Rhys raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
The man nodded, still watching the sea. "Took me forty years to realize I was carving the wrong things. I made what people wanted. Chairs. Tables. Statues of war heroes." He exhaled, long and slow. "I was good at it. But I never loved it."
Rhys leaned against the rail, folding his arms.
"What did you love then?"
The old man smiled. "Wings. Birds. Carving things that fly."
There was a stillness in the air, like even the ocean had stopped to listen.
"I carved my last bird two years ago," the man continued. "Sold everything else. I sit here now. Not because I'm waiting to die… but because for once in my life, I did something for myself."
Rhys looked down at his hands. They used to tremble when he held a mic. He used to think that meant he wasn't meant to sing. Now he wasn't so sure.
He sat beside the man. "You ever… stop doing something because it hurt too much to keep going?"
The man didn't hesitate. "Of course. That's what makes starting again so brave."
Rhys felt something break open inside his chest. He didn't say anything for a moment.
Then, softly, "I used to sing."
"I know," the old man said gently.
"I gave up because I thought I wasn't good enough. Because… I failed someone who believed in me. And I told myself it didn't matter. That I was better off just living quietly."
"And how's that working out for you?" the old man asked, a wry smile on his face.
Rhys exhaled. It wasn't bitter. It wasn't forced. For the first time in years, it was honest.
"It's not a very fulfilling route, that's for sure..." he said.
He closed his eyes, breathing in the salt air. And then—despite the fear, despite his doubts —he looked up and said:
"I want to sing."
His voice cracked slightly. It didn't matter.
The old man nodded once, as if this was the moment he'd been waiting for.
The old man asked, "What did you learn?"
Rhys took a breath, his eyes glinting with something quiet but true. "I learned how to crawl," he said.
For the first time since the singing competition, his smile wasn't forced—it was real.
He was still just a caterpillar, inching forward on uncertain ground. But in learning to crawl, he had taken his first step toward transformation.
And when the time came—when he finally embraced who he was—he would shed his old shell, unfurl his wings, and rise.
A butterfly at last, reaching for the sky he'd always longed to touch.