What She Kept Quietly

The studio smelled faintly of coffee and metal when Celeste arrived.

The coffee smell was old—just the lingering hint from an unwashed pot. Metallic notes rose from cables, used so often they barely reacted to temperature swings. Lights hummed weakly, and the building felt half-awake.

Celeste unlocked the supply cabinet first.

Habit. Always first.

The key slid in easily. Tape, batteries, spare strings, and folded cloths were all there; no need to check by hand. She closed the cabinet quietly and precisely. She put her coat on the back of the chair and set her bag at her feet.

She filled the kettle and turned the flame low.

Today required nothing public.

She pulled a small, tissue-wrapped candle from her bag and stepped toward the back shelf behind the temperamental printer. She placed it there with deliberate care, not hiding it, just marking the space.

She struck a match. It flared, died. The second caught.

The flame held.

She watched the flame steady, then turned her back and tended to the kettle.

Footsteps echoed through the corridor, dragging cases behind them. With a door swinging open too wide and bumping the wall, new energy entered the half-awake studio.

Nao entered, shoulders back and jaw set. "Who stole my left drumstick? I had two yesterday," he announced.

"You had one," Celeste said, pouring water. "You lent the other to Leo."

Nao stopped. Blinked. Then laughed.

“Wow,” he said. “That’s unsettling.”

"You asked," she said, sliding a mug to him.

He took it gratefully, warming his hands. “I didn’t think you’d know.”

As Nao processed this, Leo appeared behind him, camera already looped around his wrist, the noise of earlier arrivals settling into a new rhythm.

“I returned it,” Leo said. “You said to keep it.”

"I did not," Nao protested.

“You absolutely did.”

Celeste watched them for half a second, then returned to the whiteboard, marker already in hand.

Moments later, Brett came in next, steady and watchful, as if the room depended on him to stay together. He saw the candle but said nothing, simply placing his bag in a safe place and giving her a quick nod.

Following Brett, Peter entered quietly, his bass case bumping the doorframe and signaling another arrival in the building's gradual awakening.

“Sorry,” he murmured to the wall.

Paul arrived late, his entrance more abrupt than the others, as the morning routine was already underway.

The door opened harder than necessary.

His jacket slipped off his shoulder and landed wherever it fell, the sleeve dragging behind. He noticed the candle right away. His eyes caught on it, sharpening.

"What’s that?" he asked.

Celeste didn’t turn. She checked the kettle instead.

“Inventory,” she said.

Paul laughed. “Of course it is.”

He walked over, hands relaxed, his casual posture clearly intentional.

“So what,” he said, peering at it, “we’re cleansing the vibes now?”

“No,” she said. “Just keeping them.”

He snorted. “That’s worse.”

She poured water, then angled the mugs just so, arranging them in a neat row along the countertop so each was easily reachable for anyone passing by.

Paul took it automatically.

He gripped the mug tightly, his guarded posture slipping as the warmth startled him.

"Careful," he said, looking around. "She’ll start charging indulgences."

Nao laughed, but stopped when Brett’s chair scraped sharply.

“It’s fine,” Brett said, calm but final. “Let’s start.”

Celeste checked the board.

“Five minutes early,” she said. “If we keep the order.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Hear that? Goth Nun’s running the clock.”

She didn’t respond.

She updated the Miami run sheet. Corrected a hotel change. Replaced a contact number and erased the old one so cleanly it vanished. Paul hovered nearby, too close to be accidental.

“Do we get incense later,” he asked, “or is that a VIP upgrade?”

She handed him a pen.

“Sign here,” she said.

He blinked. Took it. Signed without reading.

“Wow,” he said. “Authoritarian and mysterious.”

The morning passed in workable pieces.

Sounds overlapped: arguments flickered and died. Celeste moved between them, untangling cables, nudging water bottles, and stepping quietly through tension. Their eyes flicked to her hands, silently following her command.

Paul tested her whenever he could.

"Goth Nun," he called. "You ever do anything fun?"

She moved past him, her shoulder close as she went by, careful not to touch him.

"The staring’s creepy. Like you’re taking notes for later," he said, louder.

She stopped. Turned.

“I don’t stare,” she said. “I listen.”

A flicker—quick doubt or discomfort—crossed his face before he masked it with a crooked smile.

“Yeah?” he said. “To God or to gossip?”

Brett cut in. “Paul.”

Paul lifted both hands. “Relax. I’m bonding.”

At lunch, Celeste didn’t sit.

She stood at the counter, typing out replies while sliding plates across the surface toward hands that reached for them without looking up.

When Paul didn’t reach, she didn’t insist.

“Not hungry?” Nao asked him.

Paul shrugged. “Too holy in here. Ruined my appetite.”

She took aspirin—without comment—when the ache sharpened. Noticing, Paul looked away too quickly, his shoulders stiffening.

Later, when the room emptied for a moment, Paul filled the silence.

"You know what I think?" he said, low.

She didn’t move.

“I think you like it,” he continued. “The mystery. Makes people careful.”

"I’m here to work," she said.

He stepped closer. Testing.

“Then work,” he said. “And stop acting like you’re above us.”

She met his gaze.

“I’m not,” she said.

No defense. No edge.

He laughed once. Not amused.

“Sure.”

By the time Mark called it, signaling the end of the session, the air felt scraped thin, and the day's blended noises faded into tired quiet.

Celeste straightened the counter. Washed the last mug. Locked the cabinet.

Paul watched her go, lips pressed tight, fingers drumming silently on the table.

“Don’t forget to pray for us,” he called. “We need it.”

She paused at the door. Looked back once.

“I do,” she said.

Outside, the cold bit clean.

In her bag, the candle stub pressed warm against her palm.

She didn’t name what she kept.

She never did.