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The Unheard Rhythm of a Red Thread
I reached for the pocket, fingers suddenly unsteady, my heart hammering against my ribs. My hand sank deep into the wool and brushed against something stiff and forgotten. Inside was a small, yellowed paper envelope, sealed with a piece of tape that had long since lost its stick. Carefully, I opened it.
They were for Backstreet Boys. My knees gave out, and I had to sit down on the dusty floor. When I was a teenager, that band was everything to me. They were the escape I craved, the noise I wanted to drown out my quiet, humble world with.
