Page 75 of 6 Days to Whisky

In disbelief, Tristan shook his head. “I can’t believe it. So how are you gonna handle this now?”

“It’s almost done,” Milo said with a faint smile. “Leaf helped me out. He hooked me up with a job. It's enough to get by and sort out my mess.”

“What kind of job?”

“A good job.”

“But …”

“Now go in there and record your new songs!”

“You promised me,” Tristan muttered. “No more gambling. Why …?”

“Stop worrying about me. Everything will be fine. I promise.”

Tristan’s eyes flew open, fixating at the ceiling. He lay there in sweat-soaked clothes, his body feeling as heavy as a rock.

What had happened? How did he get to bed? And where did this sudden memory come from? How had he forgotten the conversation? And why had he never asked Leaf about it?

Exhausted, he placed an arm over his forehead. No way he was going to rehearsal today. He didn’t have the strength to play all the songs.

But what was he supposed to do then?

Lie here in bed and beat himself up?

After the last tour, they had barely taken a break—just the two weeks he spent with Leaf to help him get back on track. Then it was straight back to the rehearsal room.

I was way too wrapped up in my own stuff to worry about Milo. And he told me about that damn job. I should have listened more carefully.

Tristan continued staring at the ceiling, watching the sunlight move through the room, the time passing and the colors changing. Better than sleeping and diving into times long gone. Into memories that couldn’t be changed anymore and moments where he wished he could slap himself for not acting differently. For giving in. For trusting. For taking on the role of the little brother, even though he knew Milo needed more help than he realized.

Tristan turned onto his side, hugging the pillow. He imagined walking by a lake in the morning mist, all alone, stepping into the deep water and letting himself float on the surface.

It was a refuge, far from here. No music and no conversations. Just a soft splashing. Absolute silence around him. Peace from all the secrets, from words that were nothing more than dark hiding places. Far from life and death.

He let himself drift toward the sun as a gentle breeze caressed him, carrying the sweet scent of awakening nature—meadows and forests. A soft tingling crept up at the nape of his neck—a shadow, a ghost, unseen and chilling.

Leaf.