Cecil awoke that morning in the same fashion he had the several days previous. At the sound of his alarm, he arose, shifted to the side of the bed, and stared down the length of his room for some minutes, until his alarm once again interrupted his empty gaze, to which he smacked it quiet without hesitation. He would sit like this for minutes, sometimes leaning back into his bed to stretch, and then rise, where he would attempt what seemed the near impossible task of motivating himself to rise and begin a day in a life that no longer seemed to have much guiding purpose.

A day had passed since his call with Floyd, and though he believed undoubtedly it was the right decision to quit the record shop, he couldn't help but agonize over the gnawing sensation of absence which crawled up inside him without it.

He'd curse this sensation and then proceed to list all the logical and necessary reasons for distancing himself in an attempt to banish these feelings of remorse, but they would not abate and only came upon him stronger when he realized how impressive their strength was.

"I can't deal with people like that," he muttered to himself, referring to Aster.

He cursed in his great anger and shame why Aster had to have the defects of personality he saw her to have, in spite of her brilliance. He truly thought there was something special to be found in all of their association, but it was poisoned at the well.

With much effort, he finally rose and stumbled across his room to a large window, the visage of which shone supremely with winter bright in his dark, wooden room.

Adjusting his eyes, he looked out at the village green which composed his neighborhood. Cobblestone streets slick with snow snaked between quaint, antiquated old homes where smoldering puffs of black smoke escaped chimneys into the frigid sky. Sylvia always complained about having to drive to this "bumpkin town", but Cecil adored the serenity.

He felt woe once again overcome him at the thought of Sylvia, and stepped away from the window.

"It always ends in disaster," he reminded himself, habitually returning to his list of reasons. “Where does she get off disrespecting people who went out of their way to help her?"

He found himself steadily growing angrier, and then heard a knock at the door. It was likely the milk boy he figured, come 'round again to pester him about piano lessons.

"I'll be there in a second!" he called, rushing to throw on an outfit. "God, he's never going to give up is he? I told him I'm not doing it for free," he grumbled as he made his way to the door.

As he opened it however, his heart stopped.

Before him stood Floyd, rendered red and jolly as Santa by the chill, and Aster, standing near half his height, with her characteristic eye bags underscoring that significantly apprehensive and nervous face.

"What are you guys doing here?" he sputtered in complete surprise. A feeling of intense irritation and anger followed, but he tried to reel it in if only to hear them out.

"We've come to talk, Cecil," Floyd replied, lowering his hat.

Cecil, attempting to restrain his intense displeasure, considered asking the meaning of their appearance but knew well enough why. He had many reasons for not letting them in, chiefly those he had ingrained in his head and oft recited the past few days, but owing to his complete and absolute surprise at their sudden appearance, as well as curiosity in hearing what excuses they had brought with them, relented and invited them in.

Aster looked remarkably uncomfortable and shy, even more so than usual, as she struggled to find a place to sit.

"Sorry, I don't usually have people over here," he remarked, motioning them out of the room and down the hall. He led them into a small living room whose sole occupants were a few chairs and the remnant odor of a dead fire in the hearth. The slight flutter of snow against the window was heard now and again.

“So, you've come to talk me out of quitting the shop and band, right?” Cecil began.

Aster looked up, flustered that they had been so easily read, and looked to Floyd for indication on what they should do. He had remarked on the way there that Aster should be the first to initiate conversation, as she was the principle reason for the trouble, but her absolute embarrassment in reflecting on her past behavior towards Cecil, as well finally coming face to face with him for the first time since their argument, left her a complete mess of nerves.

Floyd, sensing this, adopted a firm look, and cleared his throat.

“Indeed. We're here to persuade you to give it one more go.”

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Cecil frowned at this.

“One more go? Didn't I do that weeks ago the first time we had a spat? The entire reason I'm leaving is because this happens too often, Floyd. I mean, all I could think about was the show ending in disaster. I had no proof of it, and reasonably I shouldn't have even assumed it, but I knew it, and then there you two went and proved me right. And how you proved me right! I mean, my God, Floyd. You could've killed Marion!”

A look of shame came over Floyd at this, prompting Aster to try and come to his defense.

“It was a disaster, yeah... but... do you know where Floyd has been all this time?” she started meekly.

“No, I don't, but I haven't really been concerned about knowing why, either. All I know is that he destroyed the theater of one of the most prodigious venues in Cherryaire and caused the place to be swarmed by cops. That's all that really matters to me.”

“He was trying to get us a record deal.”

“What? How?”

Cecil looked on in varying shades of confusion and complete dumbfoundedness as Aster and Floyd then relayed to him the tale of Floyd's camp in outside the producer's home and subsequent break in to the venue.

He was now sitting on the floor, beside the fireplace which he had once more stoked.

“Floyd, can't you ever just be normal, man? Like, falling from the ceiling— I said before, you almost killed Marion.”

“Believe me Cecil, I am quite aware what an absolute dunce I am. It is only reasonable you cut me away, but losing you who I have known since a boy due to my foolishness will nevertheless be a great pain to bear.”

Cecil exhaled deeply. Chief among his earlier reasons for denying them, and the cause of his many regrets to having invited them in, was seeing the pain displayed upon them first hand.

It was true, Cecil had known Floyd since boyhood. It was back then when Cecil, then orphaned under the guardianship of his aunt, was taken under the tutelage of Floyd, who at the time had earned a reputation for himself owing to the fame of Sylvia's prodigious guitar talents.

He had fanned in him the flames of musical development and pushed him to adhere to the regiment that he came to regard as the catalyst for his entire life's direction, which now seemingly included excising him from it.

To look into Floyd's face was to endure heartbreak, he felt.

Though suddenly, Aster began to once again speak.

“Is that piano in tune?” she murmured, pointing to an old, burgundy varnished grand piano which sat in the back corner of the room.

Cecil looked at it, and then her.

“Yeah, I play it every day. Why?”

“Play me that song you showed me,” she replied, walking over to it.

Cecil again looked on in confusion.

“You mean the one I showed you before you told me I wasn't cut out for your albums?”

Aster frowned, but kept her eyes on the piano.

“I didn't say that, but yes. That song.”

Cecil shook his head in the negative.

“I told you, it's no good.”

“I thought it was. Play it.”

He looked at her with mistrust, trying to gauge if she were mocking him. While he was receptive to genuine amends, he was also cognizant of the fact that they had been at each other's throats not even a week before, and thus his irritation in regard to her was still very much sore.

Yet, in offering to hear out his song, it seemed as though somebody had begun to saw at the tethers to a weight he had dragged along all his life. This uplifting feeling was only rendered more intense as her words of affirmation reverberated through his ears. He could not respond, surprised as he was.

She again looked at him, this time closer to a scowl as embarrassment flushed over her face in having to repeat herself.

“Play it!”

Cecil sheepishly rose and hurried over to the piano's bench, where he lifted the cover of the ivory.

Aster watched on as he ran through the song, still unchanged from the last time he performed it, and began to hum along.

Cecil could feel his heart beating a mile a minute.

Her approval seemed to matter so much to him, and he had never even realized it until this moment. He hated himself for this weakness.

Over the next half hour, Aster and Cecil began to open up in conversation as she gave him ideas for his song, which he employed and workshopped. Little by little, his song came to life as his heart beat with amazement. Hidden in plain sight were melodies and chord changes that made so much sense it astonished him he had never thought to use them himself.

At any other time he would've fallen into a fit of despair and self-hatred at being seemingly upstaged to this degree, but now, so hungry was he for any relief to the pang of sorrow he felt in quitting the band and shop, he basked in joy at the birth of his creation.

Aster herself marveled at what they had done.

“This is really fucking good,” she whispered out of range of Floyd's earshot, who was busy preparing tea by the fireplace.

She looked towards Cecil, and then looked inwardly at herself. The feeling of complete surprise she was experiencing in that moment accentuated every single fiber of joy and delight that was now welling through her person.

She couldn't understand why. Feelings not afflicted by pain or doubt were alien to her. Should she risk feeling them only to have them trounced upon later?

Cecil himself mirrored Aster's great amazement at what felt to be two pieces of a puzzle interlocking. He traced his fingers over the ivory, and played the motif of their song again. As before, that same listless, light feeling of nascent joy welled up within him. How had he ever hated songwriting?

He had the mind to tell Aster all the things about her personality he found off-putting and irksome, but knew it were those exact qualities that would guarantee any response to him would only invite a turn for the argumentative. He instead looked for solace in the fact such a headstrong girl as herself had even put aside her pride long enough to come visit him with Floyd, to beg for his return, in a way.

It was this train of thought that allowed him to temper his rage and indignation towards her in pursuit of the glorious feeling had just now found. He would not let it out of his sight.

A moment of silence fell between the two. They both glanced at each other, but it seemed unsure for a second who would be the first to speak. Then Cecil spoke up.

“We have that radio show soon, right?” he asked.

Aster's eyes lit up.

“Yes, with none other than Willie Cooper!” Floyd interjected, hearing from across the room.

“Jesus Christ,” Cecil muttered.

Closing the cover to the piano, he arose from the chair and turned towards Floyd. He could not hide the look of confidence now bleeding into his smile.

“God help us if we mess this one up.”