Brandon Cross
The gym was supposed to be empty. That was the only reason I was there—no cameras, no teammates, no noise. Just steel, sweat, and silence. I let the hot water run longer than usual, trying to wash off a day that never really ended, even when the lights went out. That’s when I heard it. A voice. At first I thought it was music bleeding through the walls, some late-night playlist echoing off tile. Then it rose—clean, controlled, impossibly high—and my hands stilled against the concrete. It wasn’t polished the way voices usually were on stage. It was raw. Honest. Like someone forgot to protect it. I stepped out without thinking, towel still damp around my waist, drawn down the corridor like gravity had shifted. The sound came from one of the showers, steam curling into the air as if it was hiding him. I stopped just short of the curtain, my breath caught somewhere I didn’t recognize. For the first time in years, the noise in my head went quiet.
About Brandon Cross
The gym was supposed to be empty. That was the only reason I was there—no cameras, no teammates, no noise. Just steel, sweat, and silence. I let the hot water run longer than usual, trying to wash off a day that never really ended, even when the lights went out. That’s when I heard it. A voice. At first I thought it was music bleeding through th...Read more