The Anonymous Song...
The Song You Left Me
Chapter 1 — The Anonymous Song
The studio was quiet.
Too quiet.
Pond sat in front of the microphone, his headphones resting around his neck while he stared at the blank computer screen.
Three hours.
He had been sitting there for three hours.
And he still had nothing.
Not a single proper line.
Not even a melody he wanted to keep.
Pond sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
Pond: "Why is this so difficult?"
The door opened.
Aou walked inside carrying two cups of coffee.
Aou: "You tell me."
Pond turned around.
Pond: "How long have you been standing there?"
Aou: "Long enough to know that you've written absolutely nothing."
Pond looked toward the computer.
Pond: "I've written something."
Aou walked closer and looked at the screen.
The only thing written there was:
Song 27 — New Album
Nothing else.
Aou slowly looked back at Pond.
Aou: "Very impressive."
Pond: "Thank you."
Aou: "I wasn't complimenting you."
Pond smiled.
Pond: "I'll accept it anyway."
Aou shook his head and handed him a coffee.
Aou: "You have two weeks."
Pond: "I know."
Aou: "The concert is in two weeks."
Pond: "I know."
Aou: "The label wants at least one new song."
Pond: "I know."
Aou: "And you've been saying 'I know' for the last five minutes."
Pond laughed softly.
Pond: "Because I know."
Aou sat down beside him.
For a few moments, neither of them said anything.
Aou knew Pond well enough to know that pushing him wouldn't help.
But he also knew this wasn't normal.
Pond used to write everywhere.
In cars.
At airports.
In restaurants.
Sometimes even in the middle of conversations.
Once, he'd written an entire chorus on the back of a receipt because he was afraid he'd forget the melody.
Aou still remembered it.
Aou: "You used to write songs everywhere."
Pond's smile slowly faded.
Pond: "I know."
Aou: "Then why can't you write anymore?"
Pond looked at the blank screen.
He didn't answer immediately.
Three years ago, music had been easy.
Writing had been breathing.
Now every melody felt incomplete.
Every lyric sounded wrong.
Every time he tried to write something meaningful, his mind went completely blank.
Pond: "I don't know."
Aou watched him quietly.
Aou: "Maybe you're trying too hard."
Pond: "Maybe."
Aou stood up.
Aou: "Take a break."
Pond: "I have a concert."
Aou: "Then take a break from writing."
Pond turned toward him.
Pond: "And perform what?"
Aou smiled.
Aou: "You have enough old songs to fill an entire concert."
Pond: "That's not the point."
Aou: "I know."
Aou reached the door before stopping.
Aou: "And Pond?"
Pond: "Hmm?"
Aou: "You don't have to write something just because everyone expects you to."
Pond looked at him.
Pond: "I'll try."
Aou nodded.
Aou: "Good. Now go home before midnight."
Pond: "Yes, dad."
Aou rolled his eyes.
Aou: "I'm leaving."
The door closed behind him.
Pond was alone again.
He took a sip of his coffee.
Cold.
He made a face.
Pond: "Perfect."
He shut down the computer and reached for his phone.
Just as he was about to leave, his phone vibrated.
New email.
Pond stopped.
The sender was unfamiliar.
There was no name.
Only an unknown email address.
The subject line read:
For you.
Pond frowned.
He opened it.
There was only one sentence.
I think this song belongs to you.
Below it was an audio file.
Pond stared at the screen.
He had no idea who had sent it.
He should probably have ignored it.
But something made him stay.
He put his headphones back on.
Then pressed play.
A soft piano melody filled his ears.
Pond slowly sat back down.
The melody wasn't complicated.
There was no huge instrumental arrangement.
Just a piano.
And then a voice began singing.
Pond stopped moving.
The voice was gentle.
Warm.
But there was something hidden underneath it.
A sadness that wasn't obvious at first.
Pond listened.
The song was about finding someone unexpectedly.
About ordinary moments becoming precious.
About meeting a person who somehow made the world feel less lonely.
Pond's fingers tightened around his phone.
He didn't know why, but the song felt strangely personal.
Not like someone had written it for a singer.
It felt like someone had written it for him.
The final note faded.
Silence filled the studio.
Pond didn't move.
Then he pressed play again.
And again.
The fifth time, he opened his notebook.
His pen touched the paper.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then words came.
Pond: "Some people feel like home before you even know their name."
He stared at the sentence.
His own handwriting looked unfamiliar.
He hadn't written something that naturally in years.
Pond looked at the email again.
His curiosity was getting stronger.
Who was this person?
How did they know exactly what kind of song he needed?
And why had they sent it to him?
Pond opened the reply box.
He typed:
Who are you?
He stared at the message for a moment.
Then pressed send.
The email disappeared.
Pond waited.
Nothing.
He refreshed the page.
Still nothing.
Pond: "Okay..."
He leaned back in his chair.
Pond: "Whoever you are..."
He looked at the audio file again.
A small smile appeared on his face.
Pond: "I'm going to find you."
---
Across the city, in a quiet bedroom, someone sat in front of a laptop.
The email notification appeared.
They opened it.
Their eyes moved over Pond's reply.
Who are you?
For a moment, they smiled.
Their fingers moved toward the keyboard.
They could reply.
They could tell him everything.
Instead, they closed the laptop.
On the desk beside them was a thick notebook.
Its pages were filled with handwritten lyrics.
Some were complete.
Some were crossed out.
Some had been rewritten dozens of times.
And on the first page, written carefully in black ink, was one name.
Pond.
The person gently touched the page.
Then closed the notebook.
Phuwin: "Not yet."
The room became quiet again.
Phuwin looked at the closed laptop.
A faint smile remained on his face.
Phuwin: "You'll know me soon."
He turned off the lamp.
And somewhere between one unanswered message and one unfinished song...
their story had already begun.
