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◤ chapter nineteen: ❛ pull of purgatory ❜ ◢
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THE MELODIES SWAM IN HIS HEAD. Not a musically inclined man, not one who relied on the hum of songs to get through his head. A man untrained in its art, no notes memorized from band, but a man with melodies dancing around. Loud and unrelenting. More songs learned, the enthralling ones, where sailors would lay down their lives to hear just one note more.
He ran on the treadmill, headphones covering his ears, lost to the world. He hummed, and hummed and hummed. It meant nothing, an unconscious action of music that left his mouth as he focused on his breathing and the miles racking up.
A quiet voice, only for him to hear, growing a bit louder until it surpassed a whisper but below an inside speaking voice. An ear turned towards him from a stranger. An ear, than another, until faces turned towards him.
The hum – the melody – the beautiful voice of a man who never sang before. A song that could crash ships now witnessed by them, the lucky few. Movement stopped, entranced by the voice. Unconscious but powerful.
Moving along with the beat of his headphones, fast paced to slower ballads, humming along with the effort of breathing. Simple.
Miles surpassed, an hour gone, and he stopped off. Humming along as he packed up his things, leaving without a care for those left behind, clawing to follow and hear more.
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THE MCCALL HOUSEHOLD didn't know how to be quiet. Constant footsteps creaking on the wood, music faintly heard through the walls, breathing of another in the room, clicking of plates being put away. Noise. Blinding, irritating, lovely noise that invaded Cooper's eardrums at every second.
Scott laughed softly at his complaints, insisting that it wasn't as bad as he claimed, that even with his wolf hearing he couldn't pick up as much as Cooper. It caused him to frown, he wasn't being dramatic, he was being honest.
This house – filled with warm-toned furniture and walls, blankets thrown carelessly over the couch, clutter on the counter, and noise – wasn't like the Whittemore house of Wesleyan Drive. No, Cooper was used to silence. The eerie kind that others would be irked by but he had grown accustomed to. He was used to seeing no sign of life until he got upstairs to his own room, where he had an unmade bed and clothes thrown around that he should pick up.
But downstairs, in the living areas, there was nothing. Sometimes a pile of mail, maybe an apple – but nothing. Rarely anything. And yet, here, there was everything. Constant movement, constant life. It was as endearing as irritating.
