Unwritten Chords Novels & Stories

With that, I knelt before Irwin's grave, silently whispering in my heart, "I didn't mean to be late, Irwin. Every cab I tried to catch today refused once they saw where I was going. "I had no choice but to face my fear and drive here myself. That was why I was late. "I'm also divorcing Carter. I'm sorry for letting you down." With that, I opened my eyes and bowed deeply before the gravestone. Rising to my feet, a cold wind swept by, and the candle's hot wax fell onto my hand. The sharp sting startled me. It felt like a silent warning from Irwin. Did I just make a grave mistake? "What happened to your hand? Why is it wrapped in bandages? And where's the ring on your finger?" Carter asked.

Heat flooded her face, but she stood still. “Nice tits, Myr,” Trey said around his cherry sucker. His gaze moved from her bare breasts to the string of notes written above and below a single line. “There’s no staff, Brian. What in the hell am I looking at?” Brian pointed to the start of the line, near Myrna’s right shoulder. “Middle C. The first chord.” Brian showed Trey his fingering and struck the strings with his pick. Trey moved his hand along his guitar strings, glanced back at the score on Myrna’s skin and nodded. “Okay. I see. Harmony or concert?”

Every movement was free, unrestrained by lyrics or bandmates or a recording studio. Soon, though, soon the notes came together and made sense. They formed a slow melody, one that didn’t need the beat of a drum or the buzz of an electric guitar. It was pure and easy, and I paused only long enough to grab my notepad and pencil from the case. I sketched music bars and jotted down the notes I remembered. I replayed them, changing a couple out. My foot rested against the supporting bar of the chair, bringing the base of the guitar up higher, and I tested out a few more.

My fingers find a chord almost on their own. E minor. The sound blooms warm and full in the room. I let my hands move, muscle memory taking over. Old progressions. Half‑written melodies. Snatches of lyrics that never made it past motel notepads. Without thinking, I start to sing. Not *Bleed for Me*. Something older. Something from before the world knew my name. A song I wrote on a mattress on the floor, barefoot, knees dusty, Dante sitting against the wall with his eyes closed, head tipped back, smiling faintly like the sound was sun

She began again—not the polished piece she might have chosen for an audience, but something simpler, something she’d written herself years ago in fragments during long nights of feeling unseen, a melody that had never had words attached to it because it had never needed them. She played for several minutes, the music imperfect and unrehearsed, full of small hesitations where memory faltered and improvisation filled the gaps. When she finally lifted her hands from the keys, the room held a silence that felt different from the one that had greeted her arrival—warmer, fuller, as though the music had left something behind in the air. “That wasn’t a piece I recognize,” Adrian said quietly. “It is

Warren I fucked up. Well and truly. And I didn’t know how to fix it, which wasn’t like me, I knew how to fix issues, it was a simple call, pull of strings, words whispered to the right people and everything I needed to be done would be. But with Heron, there were no strings to pull, the irony of her being a seamstress was not lost on me. I stood a moment, the cold night air mocking me as I gripped tightly on the drink between my fingers. The smooth crystal glass, warping my features as I stared down at it. Not able to stomach the liquid for the first time.

My wrists ached faintly from the restraints that had only recently been removed, but the pain dulled beneath the ghost of a melody that echoed in my head. Minor chords swirled with fragments of longing, betrayal, and another raw feeling. It was grief, perhaps. I composed in pieces, building the song in layers. First a base of melancholy, then a bridge that trembled like her memories of Jordan’s voice, and finally a rise. It was defiant and aching with all the unspoken things I'd never had a chance to say. Music became my secret rebellion.

"They want… uncertainty. They are bored." "They are erasing things," Elara said, her voice heavy with dismay. She showed him a report. A young composer, sympathetic to the Unwritten, had used a subtle sonic frequency to "un-compose" a newly written anthem, reducing it to silence. A weaver had deliberately tangled the threads of a historical record, creating a "beautiful mystery." They weren't destroying; they were introducing chaos to fight what they saw as the stifling order of a "perfected" existence. This was the opposite of the Pattern, but born from the same existential fatigue. The Pattern sought peace through simplicity. The Unwritten sought meaning through mystery.

" Thomas grimaced as he wiped away the spot where Chloe's fingers had grazed him. He dialed a number with purpose. He reached out to the most infamous mental institution. Before long, a team arrived and whisked Chloe away. Chloe's voice echoed in desperation, "Thomas! Please, no! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to run into you! Spare me, please!" Once Chloe was gone, Thomas entered my room. There, on the cabinet, lay the divorce papers I had already signed. He picked them up, his gaze fixed on the box labeled [Rebecca]. His fingers clenched the papers so tightly, his heart felt like it was being crushed.

The sharp crash of glass against marble shattered the silence. Deep red wine splattered across the pristine floor, seeping into the cracks like spilled blood. Sarah Winters stood frozen at the doorway, the taste of bile rising in her throat. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out the sounds of the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. James, the man she had spent six years loving, was in bed with her best friend. Chloe. Together. The scene was like something out of a twisted nightmare, one she couldn't wake up from. The silk sheets tangled around their bodies, Chloe’s hair spilling across the pillows, James’s bare torso exposed as he turned toward her, an unreadable expression o