REKINDLED || Completed

6

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Six
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Dedicated to

JOY.

It was the only way to describe the giddiness in Oren's gut, the ecstasy swelling in his chest.

He knew this feeling well—intimately, deeply. It pulsed through his veins every time his fingers danced over the strings of his aged acoustic guitar. It started as a flicker in his core, something like desire, then blazed into something unquenchable.

For most, playing the guitar was a tactile experience—felt in the arms, the fingertips. But Oren felt it in his bones, in his breath, in the very depths of his soul.

He blessed the name of the Lord over and over, grateful for every opportunity to play, to pour himself into music, to praise his God.

As the last note faded into the air, he slowly opened his eyes, waiting to see if the joy had diffused into the room.

The answer came in a wave of applause, whistles, and cheers that filled the café. A different kind of joy swelled in him then—the joy of knowing his music had reached someone.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, its grip warm, reassuring.

"Oren, you have  to play for us tomorrow night… and probably the rest of the week—if you’re fine with it, that is."

Oren looked up to see Harry towering over him, his face split with a kind smile.

He returned the smile. "That’s fine, Mr. Moore."

"Oh, please," Harry chuckled, waving a hand. "Call me Harry."

Oren hesitated. First names felt strange on his tongue when speaking to elders. It wasn't how he was raised.

Harry seemed to sense it and nodded. "Yeah, I get it. But still, just Harry’s fine." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "There’s someone I’m having around this hour tomorrow. Things like this—your music—it’s what she needs."

Oren’s brows lifted slightly in curiosity, but he didn’t press.

Harry pulled back with that same warm smile. "Do I get you something for the walk home?"

"An espresso would do," Oren grinned.

"One espresso coming right up."

As Harry headed back to the counter, Oren let his gaze wander over the café. People were trickling out the doors, yet the energy of the performance still lingered in the air like the last note of a song.

He exhaled slowly, murmuring a quiet prayer of thanks, then packed up his guitar.

---

Outside, the night stretched vast and cool.

Oren took his time walking, dragging his steps just slightly. He wanted to savor the fresh air, the peaceful hum of Birchwood Bay at night. The streets, lined with historic buildings, felt like something out of an old novel—ancient yet alive, hiding a thousand stories in their walls.

Birchwood had been a blessing to him.

He’d only been in Canada for a short while, yet he felt more at home here than he had in years. The people welcomed him with open arms—not because of his looks (though some had commented on that), but because they loved his music. It was how his name traveled in whispers through the town.

He pulled out his phone. Past midnight.

He should probably be more concerned about wandering the streets alone at this hour, but this was a quiet town. It wasn’t London.

London.

The place he had left behind.

A weight settled in his chest, familiar but distant. His past was... a lot. Too much to unpack on a peaceful night like this.

But it had shaped him. Every scar, every choice, every inked memory on his arms—they all stood as proof that redemption was possible.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and pulled his hoodie tighter.

Then, just as he reached the junction, something caught his eye.

---

The Yates Performance Center loomed ahead, its grand architecture glowing under the streetlights.

Oren had always admired it, wondered what it would feel like to play on that stage.

But tonight, something else held his attention.

A shadow moved near the building.

He narrowed his eyes. Someone was crouched against the wall, paintbrush in hand.

Vandalism?

In Birchwood? That didn’t seem right. This town wasn’t the kind to keep police busy.

He took a step closer, squinting at the painting.

His breath caught.

It was beautiful.

Vibrant strokes, bold colors. It wasn’t just some reckless graffiti—it was art.

"So beautiful, yet so wrong," he murmured before he could stop himself.

The figure froze. The brush slipped from their fingers, clattering onto the pavement.

Slowly, they turned their head.

Masked. Hooded. Typical.

Oren cocked his head. "Don’t you think?"

The person remained silent, but he could practically feel the panic radiating off them.

Before he could say more, they scrambled to gather their things. A flurry of motion, hands snatching up supplies, feet shifting restlessly.

Then—

They ran.

Oren blinked.

"What kind of guy runs like that?" he muttered, watching the awkward, almost waddling sprint fade into the distance.

He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head.

Then, just as he was about to turn away, something on the ground caught his eye.

A black brush.

He crouched, picking it up. The wood was worn, well-loved. A single letter was scratched into the handle—A.

Oren turned the brush over in his fingers.

Interesting.