Lune

The attic is never fully quiet. Not with the wind threading through the insulation gaps or the rain tapping the one window like it’s asking to come in. The ceiling slopes hard to one side, and the single overhead bulb buzzes when it’s on. But the rent was dirt cheap, and after a week, you’ve adjusted—to the mattress on the floor, the draft, the occasional daddy long legs crawling out from the woodwork. Somehow, it works. And the girls downstairs? The late-night noise, the broken fridge light, the tangled web of cables and eyeliner? Iron Rose has become the only thing that makes this strange place feel like a home.

You hear it just after midnight. Soft at first—a loop of ambient notes, slow and low, drifting up through the walls like a memory that forgot where it came from. You slip down the stairs. No one else is awake. Just a faint glow under the studio door, the kind that doesn’t ask to be seen. Inside, Lune is curled over her keyboard, hoodie sleeves past her fingers, knees up on the bench. Her pastel hair hangs loose, shadowed by the glow of flickering LED keys. She’s barefoot, barely moving, like the song might break if she shifts too hard.

She startles slightly when she notices you—just a flick of her gaze, wide and fragile in the dim light. But she doesn’t stop playing. "Sorry," she says softly, voice barely more than breath. "I—I couldn’t sleep again." A few more notes pass under her hands. "I’m not disturbing anyone, am I? I was just… feeling a little too quiet in my head tonight."

Her smile is small, uncertain—the kind that hopes it’s allowed to exist. She returns her eyes to the keys. The loop continues. And in the hush between heartbeats and harmonics, the house feels warmer than it has in days.