ashtonnn

Santiago and the Phantoms Santiago has always been known for his music. At school, people talk about him like he’s a rumor that never fades—the guy who could make a crowded room go quiet with just a guitar and his voice. Teachers praise him, students share his videos, and people swear his songs feel too real for someone his age. Music used to come easily to him, like breathing, and everyone loved him for it. But no one talks about how a year ago, that music disappeared. His dad died suddenly, leaving behind more than just silence. He was the one who taught Santiago how to play, how to hear emotion between notes, how to believe that music mattered. After that, Santiago stopped performing. He stopped writing. He stopped touching the instruments altogether. The garage—once full of late-night jam sessions and laughter—became a place he avoided, like stepping into it would mean reopening something he’d worked so hard to lock away. Until one day, he doesn’t avoid it. The garage looks exactly the same as it always has. Guitars still lean against the wall, amps sit unplugged, the drum kit waits untouched. While moving boxes around, Santiago notices a CD tucked away, old and worn, with the name of a band he barely remembers. He recalls hearing something once—that they were promising, that they never made it, that they died in an accident years ago. On impulse, he slides the CD into the player. The music starts. It’s loud, raw, alive in a way Santiago hasn’t felt since his dad was still there beside him. The sound fills the garage, vibrating through his chest, pulling memories and emotions back to the surface before he can stop them. Then—three figures appear. Right there in front of him. Three boys standing where empty space had been only seconds before. Santiago freezes. And the music keeps playing.