Sara Duckling sat on the edge of a velvet-cushioned bench inside what looked like a cathedral made for sound. The room was long, high-ceilinged, and lined with towering shelves filled with sheet music, vinyl records, and strange contraptions that hummed softly in the dim light. At the center stood a grand piano—black, polished to a mirror shine, its lid open like an invitation.
She blinked rapidly, her fingers twitching against the soft fabric of the cushion beneath her.
Across the room, Rhodes Kissinger stood near a control panel, adjusting knobs and dials with a quiet intensity. His tics had settled into a rhythm—smaller now, almost musical. Every few seconds, his head would jerk slightly to the right, his lips twitching into a half-smile before smoothing again.
"This used to be a chapel," he said without turning. "Before I bought it."
Sara raised an eyebrow. "You bought a chapel ?"
He glanced at her, eyes glinting with amusement. "I needed the acoustics."
She let out a sharp laugh—half a hiccup, half a snort—and immediately covered her mouth, cheeks flushing.
Rhodes didn't react. He just smiled faintly, as if he understood.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus.
"So… this is where you live?" she asked, looking around.
"I work here," he corrected. "Sometimes I sleep here too."
"You're weird," she muttered.
He nodded. "I know."
A silence stretched between them—not awkward, but thick with something unspoken. Sara felt it in the air, in the way the walls seemed to hold their breath.
She shifted uncomfortably. Her leg started bouncing up and down, a tic she hadn't realized had crept in until now.
Rhodes noticed. He walked over, sat beside her, and placed one hand lightly on her knee.
It stilled.
Her breath caught.
His touch was warm, grounding. And somehow, it didn't feel intrusive—it felt like understanding.
She looked at him, unsure of what to say.
He tilted his head, another tic making his gaze waver slightly before settling back on hers.
"I want to record you," he said simply.
Sara blinked. "Again?"
"Yes."
She frowned. "Why? You already got my tics last night."
He leaned in slightly, voice low. "Because they're not just noise. They're part of you. Your story. Your rhythm."
She scoffed. "My rhythm is broken."
"No," he said firmly. "It's unique."
She stared at him, heart hammering against her ribs. She wanted to roll her eyes, make a joke, deflect—but nothing came. For once, she didn't have a witty retort ready.
Instead, she just whispered, "Why me?"
He hesitated, then said, "Because I hear myself in you."
That hit harder than she expected.
Her throat tightened. She looked away, blinking rapidly again.
He stood, offering his hand.
She took it.
The First Session
They moved to the center of the room, where a single microphone stood on a stand, surrounded by soundproof panels.
"Just talk," Rhodes instructed. "Or don't. Just be yourself."
Sara gave him a flat look. "That sounds terrifying."
He smirked. "Good."
She rolled her shoulders, trying to loosen the tension creeping into her spine.
"Okay," she muttered. "Here goes nothing."
She opened her mouth, but no words came.
Instead, her body betrayed her.
A sudden, violent tic wracked through her chest—her head snapped forward, her arms flung wide, and she let out a sharp yelp that echoed off the stone walls.
Rhodes didn't flinch.
He just watched, listening.
Another tic followed—a rapid-fire series of eye blinks, a grunt, and a deep inhale that sounded more like a sob.
Then, slowly, her body settled.
She exhaled shakily.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
She nodded. "Yeah. That was normal."
He stepped closer. "Your tics are louder when you're nervous."
"I'm always nervous," she admitted.
He studied her for a moment, then said, "Try again. Talk. About anything."
She swallowed. "Like what?"
"Tell me about your first memory of having Tourette's."
Her stomach dropped.
"That's personal," she said stiffly.
"I know."
She blinked, five times fast. "Why do you want to know?"
"Because music comes from emotion," he said. "And you… you carry a lot of emotion."
She looked away.
There it was again—the way he saw her. Not as a spectacle, not as a burden, but as something real.
Something raw.
She cleared her throat.
"My mom used to call them my little hiccups," she began, voice quieter now. "When I was five, I'd blink a lot. Then, when I was six, I started jerking my head sideways. By eight, I couldn't sit still in class. My teachers thought I was hyperactive."
She paused, taking a shaky breath.
"My parents fought a lot after that. They blamed each other. Blamed me. Eventually, my mom left. Said she couldn't handle it anymore."
Rhodes' jaw tightened.
Sara forced a smile. "So yeah. That's my origin story."
He didn't speak for a long time.
Then he pressed play on the recorder.
Her voice filled the space—soft, trembling, layered with tics and pauses.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was honest.
And somehow, it sounded beautiful.
The Walls Between Them
Later that evening, they sat side by side on the floor, backs against the wall, sipping lukewarm coffee from mismatched mugs.
Sara stared at the ceiling, watching dust motes float in the golden light filtering through stained glass windows.
"You ever think about running away?" she asked suddenly.
Rhodes turned his head toward her. "All the time."
She blinked, surprised. "From what?"
He hesitated. "Everything."
She frowned. "You're Rhodes Kissinger. Famous pianist. Genius. You could go anywhere. Do anything."
He gave a bitter chuckle. "Fame doesn't fix broken people."
She looked at him, really looked at him.
For the first time, she saw something behind his calm exterior—something wounded.
"What happened to you?" she asked quietly.
His eyes flickered. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
He sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. Another tic pulled his neck sideways, but he barely reacted.
"There was a project," he said finally. "Years ago. Before I disappeared. It was supposed to study neurological disorders. Tourette's, Parkinson's, OCD… they wanted to map the brain patterns of people with these conditions."
Sara's brow furrowed. "What went wrong?"
"They weren't just studying us," he said grimly. "They were experimenting."
Her blood ran cold.
"They tried to 'correct' our behaviors," he continued. "Used invasive methods. Some people got hurt. Some never recovered."
Sara's fingers curled into fists. "That's sick."
He nodded. "I escaped. But not before losing someone important to me."
She swallowed hard. "Who?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached out and touched her wrist.
"You remind me of her," he said softly. "In some ways."
Sara's breath hitched.
She didn't ask who he meant. She didn't need to.
She just sat there, letting the weight of his confession settle over her like a heavy blanket.
The Spark Between Them
Hours passed.
They talked. Laughed. Argued over which classical composer was the most dramatic (she voted for Chopin; he argued for Liszt).
At one point, she threw a pillow at him after he teased her for humming along to one of his recordings without realizing it.
He caught it easily, then tossed it back.
She caught it mid-air, grinning.
Their eyes met.
Something shifted.
The air between them grew charged.
Sara's pulse quickened.
Rhodes leaned in slightly.
She didn't move away.
Instead, she licked her lips nervously.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
Then—
A loud tic erupted from his throat—a sharp, guttural sound that startled them both.
They jumped apart, laughing nervously.
"Sorry," he muttered, shaking his head. "That happens sometimes."
Sara bit her lip, trying to hide a smile. "You're kind of adorable when you're awkward."
He blinked. "Adorable?"
She shrugged. "Don't get used to it."
He grinned.
And for a moment, everything felt lighter.
Safer.
Like maybe, just maybe, she wasn't alone in this world after all.
A Hidden Room
Later that night, while Rhodes was in the bathroom, Sara wandered through the studio.
She found herself drawn to a door she hadn't noticed before.
It was locked.
But curiosity got the better of her.
She jiggled the handle. Nothing.
Then she remembered the key in Rhodes' coat pocket.
She hesitated.
Was she really going to sneak?
Yes.
She slipped the key out silently, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.
Inside was a small, dimly lit room filled with filing cabinets, monitors, and stacks of paper.
On one of the desks, a laptop screen glowed softly.
She approached it cautiously.
The screen displayed a folder labeled: Subject D – Sara Duckling
Her stomach dropped.
She clicked it open.
Photos. Audio files. Notes.
Her medical history.
Her social media profiles.
Her therapy sessions.
Every detail about her life, recorded.
Her hands trembled.
Footsteps behind her.
She turned sharply.
Rhodes stood in the doorway, expression unreadable.
"I can explain," he said.
She backed away. "Explain what? That you've been spying on me?"
He closed the door slowly. "No. I—I wanted to understand you."
"Understand me?" she repeated, voice rising. "You stole my data!"
"I didn't steal it," he said. "I accessed public records. I didn't mean to invade your privacy."
She shook her head, heart pounding. "This isn't normal, Rhodes."
"I know," he said quietly. "But I swear, I only did it because I believed we could help each other."
She stared at him, searching his face for lies.
But all she saw was guilt.
And something else.
Fear.
Of being alone.
Of being misunderstood.
Just like her.