Dead Man's Playlist: Chapter 5

The cabin creaked in the wind like it was remembering something.

Junie woke up just before dawn, her dreams still clinging to her skin like mist off the lake. They hadn't been nightmares, just soft echoes. Her father's voice had threaded through them, but never fully spoke. She remember his hands, though. Always just out of reach.

The floor was cold under her feet as she padded to the window. Outside, the lake shimmered faintly in the pale morning light, a hush settling over the forest. She brewed coffee with trembling fingers. No music. Just birdsong, breeze, and the ritual of movement. When it was done, she poured herself a cup and walked barefoot to the old wooden porch.

Somewhere in the trees, a blackbird called. Clear, piercing and alone. She sipped and stared at the trees, not quite thinking. There was only one thing she knew for sure, the next volume awaited when she was ready. She took a moment to savor the morning, let the first warm rays of sun peeking between the branches warm her.

TRACK 7 - The Beatles, 'Blackbird', - Play in the morning. With the windows open.

It was funny how her father had set his tracks like a story, bouncing from beat to beat. She opened every window in the cabin. Let the air in. Let the shadows out. She placed the record on the turntable and lowered the needle. Guitar strings. Soft and hopeful. A song made of light and ache and something that almost sounded like forgiveness. Then her father's voice,

"You walked for the first time to this song. You were stubborn as hell about it. Your mom played it over and over again that week. Thought maybe it would inspire you. You took four steps. Fell twice. Got back up each time like gravity was a personal insult." The smile crept onto Junie's face before she realized it was there.

"We were both watching from the kitchen, half afraid to breathe. Your mom cried. I did too, but I lied and said it was allergies. You don't remember it. But I do. I remember the way your hands reached out like you already knew how to chase something. Like you were already trying to run." Junie sat down, hands still cradling her coffee.

"And I know, I missed so many firsts. The ones that came after. Recitals. Report cards. Broken hearts. But I had this one. I held this one like a match in a thunderstorm. Even now, I keep this one."

The song faded, and the record spun in silence. Junie stayed in her chair, blinking at the ceiling until her eyes burned. That one moment, her first steps, had been someone's treasure. Not just someone. Her father. A man who'd vanished, who had been silent so long she convinced herself he had forgotten her existence. But he had held on to this. That changed something. How easy, she thought, it was to assume the worst in others. She couldn't forgive, not this easily, but it changed something.

-

The rest of the morning passed in slow movements. She swept the floor with an old straw broom, all the while wondering what she was doing. Washed dishes she hadn't used while thinking of her friends back home. Refilled the wood bin by the stove while thinking of her job in the bookstore. Would it be there when she returned? Did it matter if it wasn't? Each act a kind of prayer, a tether to the now, all while thinking of her future.

When she sat down for lunch, just peanut butter on toast and an orange, she saw the small drawer beside the fireplace. It was narrow, about the width of a cigar box with an old brass pull. Toast in hand she crossed the room and opened it. Matchbooks. Dozens and dozens of matchbooks. Curled and faded, some from places she recognized, local diners, coffee shops, and gas stations back home. Others more mysterious, The Water Lily, Portland. Blue Note Tavern. The Solarium. Inside one labeled Mariposa Diner, she found a scrap of lined paper, folded once.

On it, just five words, written in blue pen. "You were always the song."

-

That afternoon, she walked the trail around the lake. Irene's cabin was quiet, no smoke from the chimney, no sign of her neighbor. Just a wind chime gently singing near the porch. Junie thought about knocking. About asking Irene more about her father, what he was like when he was quiet, when no one else was watching. but something held her back. It felt like the kind of question you only get to ask once. And she wasn't sure she was ready for the answer yet.

-

Back at the cabin, she pulled out the leather notebook again. Only one volume had been crossed off since she arrived. Only seven had been played so far. But everything in her life felt like it had already changed. She flipped forward,

TRACK 8 - Radiohead, 'No Surprises,' - Play when you're tired of pretending.

Junie stared at it for a long time, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs. She wasn't ready for that one. Not yet. Instead, she lit a candle, opened her journal, and began to write.

Not just notes about the records or what they made her feel, but about her father. About what she wanted to tell him, if he could hear her. And she surprised herself by wanting to tell him anything. She never had before. She didn't know if this counted as talking to him or yelling into a cave, or just trying to catch her own thoughts before they slipped away.

She wrote about the bookstore. About the customer who'd returned Catcher in the Rye because it brought 'bad luck'. About the quiet kid who left sticky notes inside books like a secret game of kindness. About the cat that used to sleep on her chest when she had the flu. About the first time she played a song on repeat just to feel less alone.

She wrote about how she'd built a life that didn't include him. How she'd learned to make space for people who stayed. And how now that he was speaking, she didn't know where to put him. He didn't fit in the past, but he wasn't in the present either. He was a voice on vinyl. And finally, she wrote, "I don't forgive you. But I think I miss you. And I don't know what to do with that."

She let the pen fall from her hand. The candle flickered low, dancing in the breath of the cabin's silence. Just then her phone vibrated. A miracle in the signal dead woods, just 2 fragile bars. She blinked tears from her eyes as she looked down at the screen. "Mira - Your Favorite,' it read. She cleared her throat, swiping at her eyes and picked up.

"Hello?"

"Holy shit," came the voice on the other end. "You're alive." Junie exhaled a laugh that came out half-broken.

"Hi, Mira"

"I was starting to think you'd joined a cult or, like, maybe gotten hit by a bus. Stolen by faeries maybe?"

"Not faeries," Junie murmured. Mira was quiet for a beat, then,

"Where are you?"

"A cabin. North of... well I'm not totally sure. My dad left it to me. Sort of. He left it for me, I don't know if there's any paperwork. The lawyers never mentioned it, so I guess maybe they didn't kn-"

"You're rambling," Mira cut in. "You haven't answered a text in four days."

"I know. I...I didn't think anyone would notice."

"Bullshit," Mira said, without heat. "I notice. Naomi asked if you quiet. Casey's convinced you're off doing mushrooms in the forest and communing with owls. I said you were probably dealing with some kind of epic emotional crisis and left it there..." Junie laughed again, real this time.

"Well you're not wrong."

"What's going on June? Is this about your dad? I didn't think you were ever close?" Junie stared at the flickering candle. The lake outside was ink now, still and watchful. Mira was always there, if she could tell anyone, it was her.

"My dad left me a bunch of records. Each one has a message on it. Like...personal ones. Like he recorded them just for me before he died. Its been...a lot." A silence stretched across the phone.

"That's, Jesus, June. Are you okay?" Mira's voice was warm, so full of care.

"I don't know. I thought I'd buried all of this. Him. A long time ago too. But now he's here. Not here-here, but enough." Mira breathed out,

"That sounds like a lot."

"It is." They sat with that for a while. Then Mira said, quieter,

"Do you want me to come get you?" Junie's throat tightened.

"No. Not yet."

"Okay. But I will, whenever. You just say the word."

"I know." There was comfort in that. In Mira's certainty. In the way she didn't press for more. Didn't try to fix it.

"Tell Casey I'm not dead," Junie said.

"Oh I will. And Naomi says if you're not back by next week, she's putting your desk plant on suicide watch." Junie smiled, tears welling up again.

"Thanks, Mira."

"Always, love you! Talk real soon, okay?"

"Okay." Junie tucked the phone beside the candle. Outside the lake had gone still. A blackbird called once more in the dark. And this time, Junie whispered back, "I hear you."

Want to Read More?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10