Dead Man's Playlist: Chapter 8

Junie woke later, sunlight filtering through the blinds in stripes that cut across her quilt like old scars. Her room felt heavier than usual, as if the fight from the night before had soaked into the walls and refused to dry out. She lay still for awhile, starting at the ceiling fan, watching it do slow, lazy circles.

The ache behind her eyes wasn't form tears. It was from holding too many things in.

In the kitchen, Mira was already up, nursing a mug of tea with both hands. She looked up when Junie appeared and smiled — not too big, not too bright, just enough.

“Chamomile,” Mira said, holding out a second mug. “Didn’t know if you’d want it, but I made it anyway.”

Junie took it. “Thanks.”

They sat at the small kitchen table in silence. The kind that didn’t feel awkward. Mira didn’t push. Didn’t ask questions or offer platitudes. She just sipped and let the air clear between them.

Finally, Junie exhaled. “I’m sorry I left without telling you.”

Mira shrugged gently. “I figured you had a reason. I just didn’t know if you were safe. That was the hardest part.”

“I think I was… chasing ghosts. And trying to decide if they were real.”

Mira reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you came back.”

Junie nodded and looked away, her throat tight. There was still something lodged there, shame, maybe. Or sorrow’s splinter.

Later that afternoon, with Mira at work and Sasha thankfully out, Junie sat cross-legged in the middle of her bedroom floor, the crate of records beside her. Her fingers found the next volume without thinking.

Track 9: 'The Trapeze Swinger,' Iron & Wine - Play when you're ready to grieve what you never said.

The handwriting beneath it was faint but legible. I owed someone an apology I never gave. Maybe this is it.

Junie ran her fingers over the sleeve. She remembered this song—long and winding, like a story told around a campfire. It always felt like a letter sent too late.

She placed the record on the turntable, clicked the arm into place, and lowered the needle. The gentle hum of vinyl gave way to soft guitar, then a voice—melancholy, warm, full of ache. It took a full minute before her father’s voice arrived, quiet as the wind outside the window.

“Her name was Elise. She was one of the kindest people I ever met. We worked together in this little record shop in Tacoma in the early 90s. Before I met your mother.”

Junie blinked. She hadn’t known her dad ever lived in Washington.

“She had this laugh that didn’t match her voice. It came from her throat like a trumpet and scared the hell out of customers. But I loved it. We’d play jazz records after close and dance like idiots in the aisles. Never went further than that. We were just… a two-person weather system.”

He paused.

“One day she asked if I wanted to move with her to Vermont. Said she wanted to open her own place. I told her no. I told her I had too many roots. But the truth was, I was scared. Scared I’d lose her. So I left first.”

Junie closed her eyes. The song continued, gently insistent.

“She wrote me letters. For a while. I never responded. I always meant to. But weeks turned to years. I don’t know what happened to her. If she forgave me. If she ever stopped checking the mail.”

He sighed.

“I never told anyone about her. Not even your mother. But I think I see her sometimes. In the way the sun hits the sidewalk in winter. In the laugh of some stranger on the train. Ghosts don’t always rattle chains. Sometimes they just... ask to be remembered.”

The song ended. Junie let the record spin, letting the quiet return. She reached for her journal. Not the notebook her father had left—but her own. The one she hadn’t touched since before the cabin.

She wrote: I wonder how many people I’ve let slip away because I thought I’d always have time to fix it. I wonder how many stories I’ll never get to finish. I wonder if Dad felt lighter after telling me about Elise. Or if it made the guilt louder. I think I understand what he meant about ghosts now. I think I might have a few of my own.

She closed the journal slowly and stared at her reflection in the dark TV screen across the room. Then, for the first time in weeks, she checked her email. There were six messages from work, mostly scheduling changes and check-ins. Nothing angry. One from her manager just said:

"You okay? No pressure, just let me know if you’re alive." She smiled despite herself. She hit reply.

“Alive. Sorry for vanishing. Personal stuff. I can come in tomorrow, if the schedule allows?” The reply came faster than she expected.

“Of course. We missed you. Tuesday shift is yours.” Her chest tightened. Not with panic. With something gentler. A thread reconnecting. That night, Mira came home with a six-pack and a grocery store cake that said “Yay” in pink icing.

“What’s the occasion?” Junie asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re not a ghost,” Mira said simply, setting the cake down. “That feels like something to celebrate.” They ate on the floor, forks in hand, no plates, frosting smudged between bites.

“I listened to another record,” Junie said softly, between mouthfuls.

“Oh yeah?”

“Track Nine. Iron & Wine.”

Mira wrinkled her nose. “You mean that eight-minute song that feels like crying into a couch pillow at 2 a.m.?”

Junie laughed. “Exactly that one.”

“And what did Vinyl Dad have to say this time?”

Junie paused. “He told a story. About someone he let down. Someone he never got to say sorry to.”

Mira’s expression softened. “Sounds like he’s apologizing in pieces.”

“Yeah.” Junie nodded. “It’s like every song is another sentence in a letter he never mailed.” They were quiet a moment.

“Do you think you’ll forgive him?” Mira asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Junie said. “But I think I’m learning how to listen.” Mira leaned back against the couch, took a sip of her beer, and smiled.

“Good place to start.” Junie glanced at the crate in the corner. Nine records down. Nine to go.

She wasn’t sure what she’d find in the second half. Maybe more ghosts. Maybe something that felt like peace. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was chasing his story anymore.

She felt like she was writing her own.

Want to Read More?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10