Elias looked at his guitar. He thought about the letter in his pocket from Sarah—she was leaving for the coast in the morning. He was afraid of the quiet house, afraid of the bed being cold, afraid of the unknown. He plugged in his amp. The hum was a low, comforting growl.
Elias closed his eyes. He stopped trying to see the walls and started trying to feel the air. He thought about Sarah, about the long road ahead, and about the weight of the night. His fingers found a minor chord, sharp and biting. He began to play a groove that felt like a heartbeat in a lonely hallway. robert_cray_dont_be_afraid_of_the_dark
He leaned into the microphone, his voice gravelly and raw. He wasn't singing to a crowd; he was singing to the shadows. Elias looked at his guitar
"Don't be afraid of the dark," Miller whispered, almost to himself, as he moved toward the back. "That’s where the best stories are written." He plugged in his amp
"The dark. You think it's gonna swallow you. But the dark is just the space where the music hasn't started yet."