The house was unusually quiet—too quiet for a Dunphy residence, which often sounded like a zoo crossed with a sitcom. But Ethan needed the silence. He needed space. After days of swirling memories, half-formed melodies, and the weight of David Rivera's name still echoing in his head, Ethan finally had the ghost of a song. Now, he just had to bring it to life.
He sat in his room, door locked, laptop open, and notebooks scattered like breadcrumbs. His MIDI keyboard was connected, his worn acoustic guitar within arm's reach, and his old flip phone placed face down on the desk—a relic of another time, but for now, it kept the world out.
He tapped a rhythm against the desk—3 soft knocks, a pause, then 7. Numbers that comforted him. His constants. Unlike the photo still tacked above his desk: a grainy black-and-white yearbook image with the caption "David R. – Missing but Not Forgotten."
The story had ended, or at least quieted. But Ethan couldn't let it be forgotten. Not when it still haunted the edges of silence.
He started with the chords—minor ones that curled like smoke. G minor to B♭, then slipping to E♭ and D. Sad, unresolved. Like a question no one wanted to answer. He played the pattern again, slower this time. The melancholy felt right. Honest.
He closed his eyes and began humming over the progression. At first, it was just air. Then a shape. Then words.
"Call you up in the middle of the night
Like a firefly without a light
You were there like a blowtorch burning
I was a key that could use a little turning"
He adjusted the tempo, slower than what he imagined in his head. More deliberate. More haunted. Then he opened a new project in his recording software and laid down the piano chords. One take. Raw. It wasn't perfect, but that was the point.
Downstairs, Claire was yelling something about a dishwasher and Luke was trying to make a soda volcano explode again. Ethan barely noticed. He was building a sonic shelter.
He picked up the acoustic guitar and began layering soft finger-picked harmonies over the piano line. His fingers moved on instinct, calloused pads brushing the strings with careful rhythm.
He added a second guitar—this time electric. Not flashy. Just a slow, echoing line that mimicked the feeling of footsteps echoing in an empty hallway.
"So tired that I couldn't even sleep
So many secrets I couldn't keep
Promised myself I wouldn't weep
One more promise I couldn't keep"
He paused, listened to the playback. The guitar solo needed space. A break from words. So he began sculpting it out with a delicate touch, fingers bending notes into quiet pleas.
He moved to the mic. His heart thumped in that annoying uneven rhythm it got when he was about to show someone a part of himself he usually kept buried.
"It seems no one can help me now
I'm in too deep
There's no way out
This time I have really led myself astray"
His voice cracked slightly on the last word, but he left it. It fit. This wasn't a polished performance. This was real.
He kept going.
"Runaway train never going back
Wrong way on a one-way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow, I'm neither here nor there"
By the time Maya showed up, Ethan had already looped the chorus three different ways and recorded an early mix. She didn't knock—she never did anymore. Just quietly stepped into the room and sat beside him on the floor.
"Is that the song?" she asked softly, after a minute of just listening.
"Yeah," Ethan said. He didn't look at her. "Or it's becoming one."
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. "It sounds... lonely. But also... like someone yelling into a canyon. Hoping the echo comes back different."
He nodded. That was exactly it.
He sang the next part directly into the mic, his voice more confident this time.
"Can you help me remember how to smile?
Make it somehow all seem worthwhile
How on earth did I get so jaded?
Life's mystery seems so faded"
Ethan added light percussion using a beat pad—soft snares, ambient reverb. Just enough to guide the tempo. He layered the second verse with quiet backing vocals, all his own voice, pitched slightly higher.
"I can go where no one else can go
I know what no one else knows
Here I am, just drowning in the rain
With a ticket for a runaway train"
Luke poked his head in around dinnertime, cardboard helmet still on. "Are you recording?"
"Yes."
"Cool. I made an alien remix of your 'Pompeii' song. Want it for the bridge?"
"No."
"Fair." Luke retrted.
Ethan turned back to Maya, who had been silently scribbling in her notebook.
"Lyrics?" he asked.
She nodded. "Just thoughts. Something about trains and ghosts and leaving before you know you're missing."
He smiled. "That's a good line."
"Thanks. It's yours now."
Ethan shifted back to the keyboard.
"And everything seems cut and dry
Day and night, earth and sky
Somehow, I just don't believe it"
He motioned for Maya. "Want to try harmonizing?"
She hesitated. Then nodded. Together, they sang the next chorus.
"Runaway train never going back
Wrong way on a one-way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow I'm neither here nor there"
Her voice fit his like puzzle pieces. Not perfect. But beautifully mismatched in all the right ways.
The guitar solo came next. Ethan laid it down clean, then played it again with distortions, choosing the second version. The whine of the strings felt like a scream swallowed mid-breath.
Phil knocked once and peeked in. "Need anything?"
"Quiet."
Phil grinned and shut the door.
Ethan leaned into the mic.
"Bought a ticket for a runaway train
Like a madman laughing at the rain
A little out of touch, a little insane
It's just easier than dealing with the pain"
His voice trailed into silence. Maya reached over and pressed her hand lightly against his.
"You okay?"
"I think... yeah. I think I needed to write this."
He played the final chorus slower, softer.
"Runaway train never going back
Wrong way on a one-way track
Seems like I should be getting somewhere
Somehow I'm neither here nor there"
And then, with no accompaniment:
"Runaway train never coming back
Runaway train tearing up the track
Runaway train burning in my veins
I run away, but it always seems the same"
They sat in silence after it ended. The track still hovered in the room like a ghost.
Cher called not long after. She wanted to know if Ethan had written anything new. Ethan told her, "Yeah, but this one isn't for performance."
"Why not?"
"Because it's not about me anymore. It's about someone who never got to finish his own song."
Cher didn't argue. She just said, "Then make sure it gets heard anyway."
That night, Ethan uploaded the track on a sharing-website called "YouTube". He titled it simply: "Runaway Train."
Just a ghost, finally given a voice.