It was the final week of senior year, the auditorium had been locked after graduation rehearsal, and the four of them wanted something to post before their performance at a classmate’s graduation party. They had played the school talent show together three months earlier, followed by two birthdays, a fundraiser, and a backyard party that ended when someone’s neighbor threatened to call the police.

Dick had started calling them a band after the talent show.

Jason still referred to the arrangement as a series of poor scheduling decisions.

“Can everyone look at me?” you asked.

Wally turned immediately. Dick followed a second later, already smiling as though your camera were another audience he intended to charm. Roy stayed against the wall, his left foot still testing the limits of the frame.

Jason looked at you last.

He held his bass case against one leg, dressed in dark jeans and a black shirt despite the heat lingering after sunset. His expression suggested that being photographed ranked somewhere below a dentist appointment and slightly above helping Wally move furniture.

“You asked me to do this,” you reminded him.

“I agreed that they needed a picture.”

“That isn’t the same thing?”

“No.”

Wally looked between you. “I think it becomes the same thing once you show up.”

“That’s not how consent works,” Jason said.

“Jason,” Dick warned, although he was trying not to laugh.

“I consent to the photograph. I’m disputing the wording.”

“You’ve been disputing the wording for ten minutes.”

“It was inaccurate for ten minutes.”

You lifted the camera again. “Stand closer together.”

Roy pushed away from the wall and slung an arm around Jason’s shoulders.

Jason removed it without looking.

Wally moved beside Dick and draped himself against him instead. Dick accepted this as his natural due, shifting just enough to keep the neck of the guitar from striking his ribs. Roy settled on Dick’s other side, leaving Jason alone at the edge.

Through the viewfinder, the arrangement looked wrong.

They had been friends long before they started making music together, but friendship did not automatically make the four of them appear like a unit. Dick and Wally filled the center with easy motion. Roy had found the light and angled his face toward it with suspicious competence. Jason remained visibly separate, the bass case upright beside him like a barrier.

“Jason,” you said.

“What?”

“Closer.”

“I’m close.”

“You could fit another person in that gap.”

“Maybe we should. They might improve the band.”

Wally pressed a hand to his chest. “After everything we’ve been through?”

“You broke two strings during one song.”

“The audience thought it was intentional.”

“The audience was drunk.”

“It was a graduation party. They were somebody’s aunts.”

“Exactly.”

You lowered the camera again.

Dick caught the movement and stepped out of position. “What’s wrong?”

“It looks staged.”

“It is staged.”

“It shouldn’t look that way.”

Roy nodded sympathetically. “She wants us to seem like we enjoy one another.”

“I’m asking a lot,” you admitted.

Dick came around to stand beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours as he looked at the display. He had been doing that since you joined the yearbook committee during your second year, and he decided every photograph taken at school required his personal review. At first, you had assumed he was vain. You eventually realized Dick simply liked being included in every stage of a process, especially when someone he cared about was responsible for it.

He studied the last image.

“You’re right,” he said.

“You didn’t need to sound surprised.”

“I’m never surprised when you’re right.”

“You argue with me constantly.”

“That’s because you’re smug when no one challenges you.”

You turned the display away before he could reach for the camera. “Go stand over there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dick returned to the wall. Rather than resuming his original pose, he caught Wally by the back of the neck and dragged him closer. Wally protested loudly, nearly striking Roy with the head of the guitar. Roy retaliated by putting him in a headlock.

Jason looked at them.

The corner of his mouth shifted.

You took the photograph.

Wally was laughing hard enough that his entire face had changed. Roy’s concentration had been ruined by the smile he was attempting to suppress, while Dick had turned toward them with the helplessly fond expression he usually concealed beneath his confidence.

Jason still stood slightly apart, but he was looking at the others now.

It was not a polished image. The security light above them cast a sickly yellow glow across the pavement, Wally’s jacket was too large, and a crushed soda can had been abandoned near Dick’s shoe. Roy’s left foot had disappeared beyond the frame.

They looked young, disorganized, and entirely certain they belonged together.

“That one,” Dick said.

You had not heard him approach.

His face appeared beside yours again, followed by Wally’s over your other shoulder. Roy leaned above him, and Jason remained a few steps away, apparently determined to preserve some dignity.

“My foot’s gone,” Roy said.

“I warned you.”

“It gives the picture mystery,” Dick decided.

“It makes him look shorter,” Wally said.

Roy reached for him.

Wally ducked behind you, using both you and the camera as a shield.

“You’re going to break something,” you said.

“Tell him that.”

“I’m not the one who insulted his proportions.”

“They’re objectively funny proportions.”

Roy lunged around you. Wally escaped toward the parking lot, guitar bouncing against his back, and Roy followed without any apparent concern for the instrument.

You checked the camera.

The photograph had survived.

Dick was still looking at it.

“We need a name before we post it,” he said.

“You’ve been saying that for three months.”

“We’ve been carefully considering our options.”

“Wally suggested Speed Trap.”

“He withdrew it.”

“Jason threatened him.”

“Constructive criticism is part of the creative process.”

Jason finally came over. “We’re not calling it Speed Trap.”

“I know.”

“We’re also not calling it Dick Grayson and the Night Wings.”

Dick looked offended. “That was never a serious suggestion.”

“It was on the list.”

“The list contained exploratory ideas.”

“The list was written on a napkin.”

“Most great art begins on napkins.”

Jason glanced at you. “Do you see what I deal with?”

“You keep showing up.”

“So do you.”

The observation caught you unexpectedly.

You looked down at the camera, pretending to check the photograph again. You had attended the talent show because Dick asked you to take pictures for the yearbook. The first graduation party had belonged to a mutual friend. The second was hosted by someone you barely knew, but Wally had sent you six messages insisting the lighting in the backyard would be perfect.

The fundraiser had been Roy’s invitation. The final party had come from Jason, although he phrased it as a warning that the others were going to attempt another performance and someone should preserve evidence in case of litigation.

No one had discussed why you were always there.

Dick looked toward the flickering light above the auditorium door.

It had been failing for most of the evening, alternating between an unpleasant glare and several seconds of darkness. You had spent half the shoot adjusting your settings to compensate.

The bulb blinked out again.

Wally and Roy returned from the parking lot, their fight apparently settled.

“We should move,” you said. “I can’t keep chasing whatever signal that thing is trying to send into the night.”

The light flashed on.

Dick went still.

You recognized that expression. It usually appeared when someone said something casually, and Dick decided it had been meant for him.

“What?” you asked.

“Night Signal.”

Jason frowned. “What about it?”

“That’s the name.”

“No,” you said.

Wally stopped adjusting his guitar strap. “Wait.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

“Night Signal,” Roy repeated, testing the weight of it. “That’s not bad.”

“It sounds like an emergency radio broadcast,” Jason said.

“That’s why it’s good,” Dick argued. “Something trying to reach people after dark.”

You looked toward the defective lamp. “It’s something trying to tell the custodian to replace a bulb.”

Dick smiled at you.

“You named the band.”

“I complained about school maintenance.”

“You named the band while complaining about school maintenance.”

Wally had already taken out his phone.

“Don’t post anything yet,” you said.

He held the screen against his chest. “I wasn’t.”

“You opened the band account.”

“I was checking availability.”

“You don’t have a band account.”

“We do now.”

Jason closed his eyes.

Roy leaned over Wally’s shoulder. “Is the name taken?”

“Not by anyone with followers.”

“We don’t have followers,” Jason said.

“We have thirty-seven.”

“Half of them are relatives.”

“Relatives spend money.”

Dick took the camera carefully from your hands before you could stop him. He did not touch the controls, having learned after one disastrous yearbook assignment that you considered settings personal, but he held it up as though examining the weight.

“Night Signal,” he said again.

The name did suit them, although you were reluctant to give Dick the satisfaction of admitting it. There was something unfinished in it, a sense of searching across distance without knowing who might answer. They had no songs released, no proper rehearsal room, and no plan extending beyond the next performance.

They did not know what they were trying to become.

They only knew they wanted to be heard.

Dick handed the camera back.

“Take one more.”

“The light is dying.”

“Then we should get it before it does.”

This time, they arranged themselves without direction. Dick took the center, Wally leaning into him from one side and Roy from the other. Jason remained near the edge until Dick caught the sleeve of his shirt and pulled him closer.

Jason allowed it.

You raised the camera.

The light flickered.

The shutter opened just before the courtyard went dark.

🌙📸🎶📸🌙 

The graduation party began badly and became louder from there.

Someone had assembled a stage from mismatched wooden platforms at the far end of a large backyard. The grass was soft from rain earlier in the week, and one corner sank whenever Roy struck the bass drum too hard. Extension cords ran from the house through an open kitchen window. Wally’s amplifier produced an alarming crackle whenever anyone walked too close to the outlet.

Jason spent the first twenty minutes arguing that they should not perform until the equipment had been made safe.

Wally spent the same twenty minutes insisting he had already made it safe.

“You wrapped tape around it,” Jason said.

“Electrical tape.”

“That isn’t a substitute for an electrician.”

“It is if the electrician is busy.”

“You’re not an electrician.”

“I understand electricity.”

“You failed physics.”

“That was a disagreement over testing methodology.”

Jason stared at him.

You crouched beside the edge of the makeshift stage and photographed his expression.

He heard the shutter.

“Delete that.”

“No.”

“You’re encouraging him.”

“I’m documenting the hazards of amateur live music.”

Roy leaned over his drum kit. “Make sure you get the part where I die because the stage collapses.”

“You’re not going to die,” Dick said.

The platform dipped beneath Roy’s stool.

He looked down.

“We should put that in writing.”

The audience began gathering before the argument was settled. Most were classmates, relatives, and friends who had spent the afternoon moving between the house and yard. Several folding tables had been pushed together beneath strings of lights. Someone’s father stood behind a grill, watching the equipment with increasing concern.

You moved through the crowd while the four of them finished setting up.

The earlier photographs had been controlled, even when the subjects refused to cooperate. This was different. People stepped into your path without noticing. The light changed whenever someone opened the back door. The stage was too low for clean angles, and the cords created boundaries you could not cross without risking Wally’s life or Jason’s temper.

You were still adjusting when Dick stepped toward the microphone.

He had been performing for years in school productions, choir concerts, and talent shows, but this was the first time you saw him appear nervous.

The signs were small. He rolled his shoulders once before reaching for the stand. His thumb rubbed across the side of the microphone. When he looked toward the audience, his smile arrived a fraction later than usual.

Then he found you.

You had raised the camera without thinking.

Dick’s shoulders loosened.

“Hi,” he said into the microphone.

The speakers shrieked.

Half the crowd covered their ears. Wally recoiled from his amplifier. Jason turned toward the equipment with the exhausted fury of a person whose warnings had become prophecy.

Roy tapped a light rhythm against the edge of his snare while the sound settled.

Dick laughed.

It changed everything.

The embarrassment became part of the performance rather than a failure before it. The crowd laughed with him. Wally recovered enough to play an exaggerated dramatic chord. Roy followed with a flourish.

Jason shook his head, but his fingers moved into position.

“We’re Night Signal,” Dick said.

It was the first time any of them had said the name to an audience.

The words traveled strangely through you.

Dick looked toward the camera again.

“Our photographer named us about an hour ago.”

Dozens of faces turned in your direction.

You lowered the camera.

“No,” you called.

“Yes,” Dick said.

“She was complaining about a light,” Wally added into his microphone.

“It was an important artistic moment,” Roy said.

Jason leaned toward his own microphone. “The light was broken.”

The crowd laughed again.

You raised the camera partly to hide behind it.

Dick counted them in.

The first song was one you had heard them rehearse twice in Roy’s garage. At the talent show, they had covered songs everyone recognized, relying on familiarity to carry the audience through the places where nerves disrupted their timing. Tonight, half the set belonged to them.

The difference was immediate.

Dick moved across the small stage as though he had forgotten it was assembled from borrowed platforms and sinking into wet grass. His voice opened around lyrics that had sounded uncertain in the garage. Wally’s restless energy stopped resembling nervousness and became momentum, his whole body following the guitar. Roy remained partly concealed behind the others, but every change began with him. Jason stood nearest the edge of the stage, apparently still enough to be separate until you listened and realized he was holding the entire song together.

You photographed the first verse from beside the speakers.

During the chorus, Dick found the lens.

He sang directly toward you.

You nearly missed the focus.

The crowd was small, loud, and generous. They cheered when Wally jumped from one side of the stage to the other, although Jason shouted something at him afterward that was probably related to the unstable platforms. Roy spun one stick between songs and dropped it into the grass. Dick filled the delay by inventing an elaborate story about how Roy had once been banned from a percussion store.

“I was not banned,” Roy called from behind him.

“You were asked not to return.”

“That’s different.”

Jason used the interruption to retune.

Wally watched you while pretending to adjust his pedal. When you lifted the camera, he pointed toward the far side of the stage and raised his eyebrows.

You did not understand.

He repeated the gesture.

Then he ran.

You reacted quickly enough to catch him leaping over a monitor, knees bent and guitar angled across his body. The string lights behind him blurred into warm circles.

He landed badly, stumbled into Dick, and nearly took both of them down.

Jason closed his eyes.

Roy missed a beat because he was laughing.

The crowd loved it.

Wally looked toward you immediately.

You held up one thumb.

His grin became bright enough to ruin his attempt at dignity.

They ended the set with the first song they had written together. It did not have a permanent title yet. Dick introduced it differently every time, while Jason insisted it should remain unnamed until they finished rewriting the second verse.

The opening was quiet enough that the conversation around the food tables softened.

Dick stood at the microphone without moving. Jason’s bass entered beneath his voice, followed by the low pulse of Roy’s drums. Wally waited until the chorus.

You lowered the camera.

Some moments became clearer when you stopped trying to preserve them.

You watched Dick close his eyes during the final line. Jason turned slightly toward him, waiting for the smallest cue before letting the bass fall away. Roy’s attention moved between all three, reading them. Wally played the final chord and let it ring through the yard.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

Then the applause began.

It wasn’t enormous. There were no strangers in the audience who had arrived solely for the music, no critics, no industry representatives, and no one likely to remember every song by the following week.

The four of them looked at one another as though none of that mattered.

You lifted the camera and caught the moment immediately after.

Dick’s relief. Wally’s astonishment. Roy’s quiet satisfaction.

Jason was looking at you.

After the set, people crowded around them near the stage. Classmates asked when they were playing again. Someone’s uncle wanted to know whether the unnamed final song was available online. Dick answered every question as though they already had a calendar full of performances and a catalog ready to release.

You retreated toward the side of the house to review the photographs.

Wally found you first.

He was still carrying his guitar, the damaged strap darker where sweat had soaked through it.

“Did you get the jump?”

“You nearly killed Dick.”

“Dick’s fine.”

Across the yard, Dick was rubbing one shoulder while speaking to someone’s mother.

“He may disagree.”

“Did you get it?”

You turned the display toward him.

Wally leaned close enough that his hair brushed your cheek.

The image was sharper than you expected. His face was partly obscured, but the movement mattered more than expression. The string lights behind him made the yard appear larger and stranger, as though he had thrown himself across a stage rather than three feet of damp plywood.

“Oh,” he said.

You glanced at him.

Wally stared at the image with unusual stillness.

“That’s me?”

“You were there.”

“No, I know, but—” His mouth moved as he searched for words quickly enough to keep pace with his thoughts. “I look like I knew I was going to land.”

“You didn’t.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed.

Wally looked from the camera to you.

“You make us look better than we are.”

“That isn’t what I’m doing.”

“It kind of is.”

“You moved like that. I only caught it.”

“You knew when to catch it.”

“You pointed.”

“You understood eventually.”

“After you nearly dislocated your shoulder gesturing.”

His smile softened.

Before you could ask what had changed, he caught your face between both hands and kissed your forehead.

The gesture was fast, enthusiastic, and so unexpected that the camera nearly struck his chest.

“You’re never allowed to leave,” he announced.

Then he released you and ran toward the others, shouting that you had captured the jump.

You remained beside the house.

The place where his mouth had touched your skin felt strangely warm.

Dick approached a moment later.

He looked toward Wally, then back at you.

“What did he do?”

“Nearly damaged my camera.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down.”

“He got excited.”

“He usually does.”

Dick’s mouth curved as though he knew something you did not.

“Don’t,” you said.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“I was going to thank you.”

“For the pictures?”

“For being here.”

The answer landed differently from the one you expected.

Dick reached out and straightened the camera strap where Wally’s hands had twisted it near your shoulder. His fingers grazed the side of your neck.

Neither of you moved.

The party continued behind him. Someone changed the music playing through the speakers. Roy called for help moving the drums before the platforms sank any farther.

Dick’s thumb brushed the strap once.

Then Jason shouted his name, and the moment folded itself into everything else you did not examine too carefully.

🌙📸🎶📸🌙 

The first Night Signal post received sixty-two likes.

Wally reported every new one in the group chat until Jason threatened to mute him. Dick responded to every comment. Roy changed the account biography three times, once to describe himself as “the attractive one,” which began a twelve-message argument about whether that implied the others were unattractive.

You had never agreed to join the group chat.

Dick added you before the first post went live.

The chat was named NIGHT SIGNAL: OFFICIAL BUSINESS and contained no official business during its first week. Wally sent unfinished recordings at two in the morning. Roy shared photographs of poorly maintained drum kits from online listings. Dick produced increasingly ambitious ideas for future performances.

Jason asked practical questions that the others ignored until they became emergencies.

You posted the finished photographs.

The group went silent for almost a full minute.

Then Wally called you.

“You made us look real.”

You leaned back from your laptop. “You are real.”

“You know what I mean.”

You did.

The images did something the recording from the party could not. In motion, the four of them were talented but inexperienced, still checking one another for cues and recovering visibly from mistakes. The photographs removed that uncertainty without making them dishonest.

Dick looked like someone a crowd would follow. Roy appeared half-concealed behind his drums, his expression caught between concentration and amusement. Wally’s energy survived the stillness, held in the angle of his body and the hand wrapped around his guitar. Jason looked directly into the lens, guarded but impossible to overlook.

Together, they appeared less like four recent graduates playing borrowed instruments and more like the beginning of something.

“They’re good,” you said.

“They’re really good.”

“That was implied.”

“No, I mean—” Wally stopped and restarted, which was rare enough to make you listen more closely. “I knew you were good. I’ve seen your other stuff. But this is us.”

You looked at the screen.

“Yes.”

“How did you do that?”

“I took pictures of you.”

“You’re impossible.”

“That’s what Jason says about you.”

“He means it affectionately.”

“He doesn’t.”

“I choose to receive it that way.”

The call continued for another forty minutes. Wally discussed profile pictures, possible posters, and whether you thought short videos would perform better than still images. You reminded him that you had a final project due and ended the call after he attempted to convince you that Night Signal qualified as your final project.

The following morning, Dick changed the profile picture on every account he owned.

Roy printed one and taped it inside his locker at work.

Jason said nothing.

Two days later, you noticed the candid photograph—the one with Roy’s missing foot—on his phone screen when he placed it faceup beside his lunch.

You did not mention it.

Neither did he.

🌙📸🎶📸🌙 

Graduation separated everyone without creating much distance.

The ceremony took place beneath a white tent on the football field because the gymnasium’s ventilation system had failed. Everyone wore dark gowns despite the heat. Wally complained that the fabric had been designed to punish academic achievement. Roy attempted to smuggle a flask-shaped bottle of water into the ceremony and was stopped by a teacher who did not believe it contained water.

Dick gave a speech on behalf of the performing arts department.

Jason claimed he was not going to listen, then remained completely still for all six minutes.

You photographed the four of them after the ceremony beneath a tree at the edge of the field. This time Roy kept both feet inside the frame. Dick held his diploma above Wally’s head. Jason had already removed the cap he insisted looked ridiculous.

Someone’s parent offered to take a photograph that included you.

You almost refused.

You were more comfortable behind the camera, where you could decide what remained and what disappeared. Dick had already accepted the offer, however, and Roy took the camera from your hands before you could object.

The parent arranged the five of you beneath the tree.

Wally put one arm around your shoulders. Dick took the other side. Roy leaned behind you, his chin briefly touching the top of your head until Jason told him to move.

Jason stood at the edge.

You caught his sleeve and pulled him closer before the photograph was taken.

The image was slightly overexposed, and the horizon tilted to one side. You kept it anyway.

🌙📸🎶📸🌙 

By the end of the summer, all five of you had begun learning what came after the structure of school disappeared.

Dick took vocal lessons twice a week and worked evening shifts at a restaurant near the theatre district. He began as a host but was moved to serving after the manager discovered that customers tipped more when Dick smiled directly at them. He complained about the uniform while somehow making it look intentional.

Wally enrolled in an engineering program at the community college, changed his specialization before classes began, and accepted a part-time job repairing computers in a shop where he was repeatedly told to stop taking apart items customers had not asked him to examine.

Jason registered for literature courses and worked at an independent bookstore. He claimed the job was temporary, then began recommending novels to customers with enough severity that several returned specifically to ask for him.

Roy worked at a motorcycle garage owned by a family friend. His shifts began early, ended unpredictably, and left permanent grease beneath his fingernails. The garage had storage space in the back and an owner willing to tolerate music after business hours as long as nothing caught fire.

You started a photography program while accepting every freelance job that could pay for equipment, transportation, or the next month’s software subscription. You photographed senior portraits for people who had delayed booking them, restaurant dishes that collapsed beneath studio lights, community theatre rehearsals, family parties, and one pet-adoption event during which a terrier urinated on your equipment bag.

Night Signal rehearsed around everyone’s schedules.

This frequently meant beginning after ten at night.

The garage had concrete floors, fluorescent lights, and walls thin enough for every mistake to echo back. Roy’s drums occupied the back corner. Wally ran three extension cords across the room in a configuration Jason described as an electrical confession. Dick kept lyric sheets on the workbench beneath boxes of spark plugs.

Jason brought you a folding chair during your first visit.

You had not asked for one.

He set it beside the least damaged wall, moved a crate away from your feet, and returned to tuning his bass.

“Thank you,” you said.

He glanced over. “Wally trips.”

“I heard that,” Wally called.

“You were supposed to.”

You sat down with the camera in your lap.

There was no practical reason to be there. The fluorescent lighting was terrible, and rehearsals did not produce anything the band could post without giving away unfinished songs. You had an assignment waiting at home and an early shoot the following morning.

Dick had sent you the address anyway.

Roy had brought an extra soda without asking what you wanted.

Wally had cleared enough space near the amplifier for your bag.

Jason had found you a chair.

You stayed.

🌙📸🎶📸🌙 

They were developing a sound through argument.

Dick wanted songs that gave him room to move between softness and spectacle. Wally filled every available space until Jason told him that silence was also a musical choice. Roy experimented with tempo whenever the others became too comfortable. Jason listened to everyone before anchoring the confusion into something coherent.

You learned the earliest versions of the songs before they had names.

One began as a progression Wally played while waiting for Roy to finish repairing a stand. Dick started humming over it. Jason joined after the second repetition, his bass changing the shape of the entire piece.

Roy listened for another few seconds before entering with the drums.

The room transformed.

You raised the camera without thinking.

Dick noticed.

He always noticed.

His eyes found the lens as he sang words that did not yet exist, only sounds filling the space where lyrics would eventually go. Wally crossed the room while playing, unable to remain still now that the music had caught him. Jason stood near the workbench with his head lowered, fingers moving steadily. Roy watched all three from behind the kit, waiting for the moment he could push them somewhere new.

You took twelve photographs before the song collapsed.

Wally struck the wrong chord. Dick lost the melody while laughing. Roy continued drumming for several seconds after everyone else stopped, then finished with an unnecessarily dramatic crash.

Jason looked toward you.

“Did you get anything usable?”

You checked the images.

The lighting remained terrible. A stack of tires appeared behind Dick, and one extension cord cut across the bottom of the frame. Wally was blurred in several shots.

The final photograph caught all four of them looking at one another.

“I got something,” you said.

You edited it that night.

The band posted it with a fifteen-second clip of the unfinished song. The combination drew more attention than anything they had shared before. Local accounts reposted it. A small venue sent them a message asking whether they were available for an opening slot.

Night Signal’s first paid performance earned them one hundred dollars.

The venue called it a guaranteed fee. Jason called it twenty-five dollars each until Dick reminded him that they needed to include you.

You had been examining the room, calculating how far you could raise the exposure without destroying the photographs.

“What?”

“The money,” Dick said. “You get a cut.”

“I’m not performing.”

“You’re working.”

“I didn’t quote you a rate.”

“That doesn’t mean your work is free.”

You looked around the dressing room, which was actually a storage closet containing a mop sink and several cases of bottled beer. “You need the money more than I do.”

Jason leaned against the wall. “That isn’t the point.”

“You need new cables.”

“We always need new cables,” Wally said. “It’s a chronic condition.”

Roy took the envelope from Dick, counted the bills, and held one toward you.

You did not accept it.

“Roy.”

“You took the pictures that got us booked.”

“You wrote the songs.”

“And you still deserve to be paid.”

“I’m your friend.”

Dick’s expression softened.

It was precisely the wrong thing to say.

Jason straightened. Wally stopped trying to balance a bottle cap on his thumb. Roy lowered the bill but did not return it to the envelope.

Dick came closer.

“You being our friend doesn’t make your work less valuable.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

The question was gentle enough to be worse than an accusation.

You had photographed them because you liked being there. Assigning a price to it felt unnecessary, almost dishonest, as though admitting the camera had turned friendship into a transaction.

Dick seemed to understand.

“You can give it back later,” he said. “Buy food for rehearsal or replace one of Wally’s cables after he destroys it.”

“Why are you assuming I’ll destroy one?”

“Pattern recognition.”

“But you take it now,” Dick continued. “Because we hired you.”

“You didn’t hire me.”

Roy offered the bill again. “We’re trying.”

You accepted it.

The payment barely covered transportation and the time you spent editing. It was also the first money Night Signal earned from a show and the first money they paid anyone beyond the venue staff.

You folded the bill and placed it behind your identification card in your wallet.

You never spent it.

The show itself took place in a narrow room above a bar.

The stage lights consisted of two red lamps and a strip of blue LEDs that blinked whenever the bass became too loud. The audience included the headlining band, several people waiting for friends to finish work, and one couple who had apparently mistaken the venue for somewhere quieter.

You arrived before soundcheck and found the others arguing with the venue manager.

“She needs a pass,” Dick was saying.

The manager glanced toward you. “For what?”

“Our photographer.”

It was the first time you heard anyone call you that.

Not a friend taking pictures. Not the person who built their press kit or happened to own better equipment than the rest of them.

Their photographer.

The manager looked unconvinced. “She can stay in the public areas.”

“She needs stage access,” Roy said.

“There is no stage access.”

Jason pointed toward a narrow corridor beside the speakers. “That leads backstage.”

“That leads to storage.”

“It also leads behind the stage.”

Wally appeared beside you and took your equipment bag before you could protest. “She needs the angle.”

“What angle?” the manager asked.

“All of them,” Dick said.

The debate ended with a handwritten pass taped to your shirt and strict instructions not to block the fire exit.

You photographed the entire set.

Afterward, the manager asked whether he could use one of your images to advertise future live nights.

Jason stepped between you before you could agree to send it for free.

“She has rates.”

You looked at him.

Jason did not.

He negotiated the fee while you stood beside him, still holding your camera.

It wasn’t much. It was the first time someone had paid for one of your concert photographs without the band’s money passing through your hands first.

When the manager left, Jason took a bottle of water from the case near the wall and gave it to you.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“He asked for your work.”

“I could have handled it.”

“I know.”

The absence of defensiveness stopped you.

Jason leaned against the wall, his bass case beside him.

“You would’ve given it to him.”

“Maybe.”

“You worked all night.”

“So did you.”

“We were paid.”

“So was I.”

“Because we made you take it.”

You turned the unopened bottle between your hands. “You’re very invested in my financial decisions.”

“I’m invested in people not taking advantage of you.”

The answer was direct enough to remove whatever joke you might have made.

Jason’s eyes moved over your face, then toward the room where the others were dismantling equipment.

“Especially when they’re using us to do it,” he added.

He picked up his bass and returned to the stage.

You stood in the corridor until Wally shouted that he needed help identifying which cable Jason had threatened to throw away.

🌙📸🎶📸🌙 

The local shows multiplied slowly.

One opening slot became three. A promoter invited them to play a showcase in a room where the audience consisted mostly of other bands waiting for their own sets. They performed at a restaurant with a stage too small for Roy’s full kit and a neighborhood festival where Wally’s amplifier lost power during the second song.

You photographed all of it.

You learned where to stand before Dick crossed the stage. He could find your camera in any room, even when the lights blinded him to most of the audience. At first, he grinned whenever he caught you watching.

Later, he began singing toward you.

It should have felt theatrical. Dick was a performer, and the camera rewarded people who understood how to engage with it. You told yourself he was giving you better images.

That explanation worked until you lowered the camera during rehearsal and found him still looking at you.

He missed his next line.

Wally noticed.

His grin lasted for the remainder of the song.

Photographing Wally required a different language. He moved too quickly for warnings and disliked repeating anything that had happened naturally. You began watching his feet, the tightening of his grip, the slight bend in his knees before he jumped from a platform or crossed behind Dick.

Eventually, Wally realized what you were doing.

He started warning you with his eyes.

A glance toward the edge of the stage meant he intended to jump. A lifted eyebrow gave you half a second before he moved closer to Dick. When he shifted his weight toward Roy, you knew he was about to climb onto the drum riser despite being told repeatedly that there wasn’t enough room.

After each show, he came to you first.

“Did you get it?”

“You nearly kicked Dick in the head.”

“But did you get it?”

“You’re going to break an ankle.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

You always got it.

Wally began sending you ideas between shows. Most were impractical. Several involved smoke machines they could not afford, and one required access to a rooftop Jason pointed out did not legally belong to any of them.

Some were good.

For their first proper promotional shoot, Wally found an abandoned service station on the edge of the city. The building had been emptied, but the faded signs remained. Weeds grew through cracks in the pavement, and the setting sun turned the dirty windows gold.

The shoot cost nothing except fuel and the meal Dick bought afterward.

Wally arrived with three jackets and no idea what matched any of them. Roy wore a sleeveless shirt despite the cold. Dick had clearly planned his outfit for several days while pretending he had not.

Jason showed up directly from the bookstore in a dark sweater.

“You can’t wear that,” Roy told him.

Jason looked down. “Why?”

“You look responsible.”

“I am responsible.”

“That’s not our brand.”

“We don’t have a brand.”

Dick glanced toward you. “We have a brand.”

Four heads turned.

You had been checking the light.

“Don’t ask me,” you said.

“You’re the visual department,” Wally replied.

“I wasn’t informed there were departments.”

“There are now.”

Roy gestured toward himself. “Talent.”

“Percussion,” Jason corrected.

“Same thing.”

You directed them toward the side of the building.

Jason complained about every posed arrangement, so you stopped posing him. Instead, you asked Dick to stand near the old pumps and sent Wally to sit on the hood of Roy’s truck. Roy leaned against the building without being told.

Jason remained beside you.

“You aren’t in the picture,” you said.

“I noticed.”

“Go over there.”

“You said you weren’t posing me.”

“I said I would stop telling you what expression to make.”

“That’s different.”

“Yes. Move.”

He gave you a look but crossed the pavement.

Rather than arranging him, you waited.

Dick said something that made Wally laugh. Roy interrupted. Jason turned toward them, his body angling naturally into the group.

You took the photograph.

The resulting images became their first posters. One appeared behind the counter at Jason’s bookstore. Roy taped another to the office window in the garage. Dick convinced the restaurant manager to display one near the entrance until a customer attempted to take it home.

The photographs also led to more bookings.

So did the growing collection of live images you supplied after every performance.

Without discussing it, you began carrying spare batteries for the band’s equipment as well as your camera. Jason added your transportation costs to his spreadsheets. Dick copied you into venue emails so you could ask about access and lighting. Wally sent you unfinished tracks because he wanted to know what colors they sounded like.

Roy began saving the seat beside him whenever they traveled together.

You missed one rehearsal in October because a paid event ran late.

It should not have mattered.

They did not need you to rehearse. Your absence did not change the arrangements, the lyrics, or the equipment. You sent Dick a message explaining that you would not make it and expected the night to proceed normally.

The group chat became active forty minutes later.

Wally: this feels weird

Jason: We are rehearsing.

Wally: exactly

Roy: Her chair looks judgmental when it’s empty.

You: my chair is a folding chair

Dick: You’ve given it a strong personality.

You: play your songs

Wally sent you an audio recording.

The first thirty seconds consisted of Roy tapping the microphone, Dick asking whether the recording had started, and Jason telling everyone to stop wasting time. Then the music began.

You listened while sitting in the back of a rideshare with your equipment bag between your knees.

The song was unfinished. The recording distorted whenever Roy played too loudly, and someone dropped something metallic halfway through the second verse.

When it ended, Dick’s voice came through the speaker.

“That part was for you.”

“What part?” Wally asked in the background.

“The song.”

“The whole song?”

“Mostly.”

Jason said something you could not hear.

Dick laughed before the recording stopped.

You listened twice.

At the next rehearsal, your folding chair had been replaced with a padded one someone had found in the garage office.

No one admitted responsibility.

Roy brought your usual soda. Wally had created a space on the workbench for your laptop. Dick asked for your opinion on the unfinished song before he removed his jacket.

Jason handed you a paper cup of coffee.

The coffee was mostly milk and exactly as sweet as you preferred.

“You didn’t have to get this.”

“You stayed for four hours last time.”

“That was four days ago.”

“You were tired.”

“That condition has continued.”

“That’s why I bought it tonight.”

He moved to sit on the crate beside you.

The others were rehearsing the same section of a song, Dick and Wally arguing over a transition while Roy tapped an impatient rhythm against his leg.

Jason looked at the images on your screen.

“You didn’t post the one from Friday.”

You knew which one he meant.

After the show, you had found him alone beside the loading entrance with his bass resting against the wall. The venue owner had cut their set short because the headlining band arrived late and demanded additional time. Jason had been furious, though the photograph caught something beneath the anger: disappointment he had not wanted the others to see.

“It wasn’t for anyone else,” you said.

He was quiet.

“You could delete it.”

“I could.”

“Are you going to?”

“No.”

Jason nodded once.

His attention remained on the photograph.

“Why keep it?”

You considered the question.

“Because it happened.”

“That isn’t usually enough.”

“No.”

The image was darker than most of your work with the band. Jason’s face was partly shadowed, the loading entrance light outlining one side of him. His hands were loose between his knees, no longer clenched but not yet relaxed.

“You let me see it,” you said.

Jason looked at you.

The noise of the rehearsal continued behind him. Dick repeated the same lyric. Roy corrected the tempo. Wally played over both of them.

Jason’s expression became unreadable.

Then he picked up his bass and returned to the others.

You kept the photograph.

🌙📸🎶📸🌙 

Roy’s flirtation became another part of the routine.

He made himself easy to photograph whenever he wanted your attention. He spun drumsticks between his fingers, tilted his face toward whatever light you had managed to find, and watched the lens through gaps in the cymbals. During one rehearsal, he removed his shirt under the pretense that the garage had become too warm.

It was November.

“The heater isn’t working,” you said.

“I run hot.”

“You’re standing beside an open door.”

“Maybe I’m helping you test the camera.”

“The camera works on shirts.”

Roy leaned one forearm against the drum kit. “You worried you’ll like what you see?”

“No.”

“You answered quickly.”

“I’ve seen you eat noodles directly from a saucepan.”

“There are people who would find that appealing.”

“Those people need help.”

He smiled, but the expression faded when he thought you had turned away.

You caught it through the viewfinder.

Roy’s flirtation created enough noise that you almost missed how attentive he was. He kept bottles of water near your chair without announcing it. If a venue became too crowded, he appeared at your side and created space with a hand at the small of your back. He noticed when you stopped responding to Wally’s commentary because you were tired rather than focused.

After one show, you sat on a crate behind the venue while trying to clean a lens beneath a security light.

Roy lowered himself beside you.

“You disappeared.”

“I’m thirty feet from the door.”

“Still counts.”

“The dressing room was crowded.”

“That guy from the opening band was bothering you.”

You looked at him. “He asked what camera I use.”

“He asked whether you needed someone to show you how to use it.”

“He was making conversation.”

“He was being an asshole.”

Roy’s tone remained light, but his jaw had tightened.

“I handled it.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t need to follow me.”

“I wanted quiet.”

“You brought drumsticks.”

He glanced at the pair in his hand. “Emotional support.”

You laughed.

The tension left his face.

Roy leaned back on his palms and looked toward the night sky, although the city lights erased most of the stars.

“You know you don’t have to be nice to everyone who wants something from you.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re nicer than Jason.”

“Most people are.”

“I heard that,” Jason called from the doorway.

Roy smiled without turning.

You finished cleaning the lens.

His shoulder remained against yours until the others were ready to leave.

🌙📸🎶📸🌙 

By winter, the band had eight finished songs and enough local bookings to create the illusion of momentum.

The illusion required considerable maintenance.

Dick spent his breaks at work contacting venues. Jason maintained a spreadsheet tracking payments, equipment expenses, and promoters who had attempted to alter terms after the show. Wally managed the social accounts despite being repeatedly forbidden from posting without supervision. Roy found rehearsal spaces, replacement parts, and people willing to let them play.

You built the press kit.

It began because Dick sent you a document containing one paragraph, three different fonts, and a biography describing Night Signal as “four people united by sound, friendship, and a refusal to accept the ordinary.”

You called him immediately.

“What is this?”

“Our press kit.”

“It looks like a ransom note.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“You centered half the text.”

“The important half.”

“You described Jason as mysterious.”

“He is.”

“I’m sitting beside you,” Jason said in the background.

Dick lowered his voice. “See?”

You took control of the document before they could send it anywhere.

You selected photographs from the previous six months, rewrote the biographies, standardized the colors, and created a simple logo using the flickering line of the auditorium light as inspiration. Jason supplied accurate performance details. Dick rewrote his answers after you told him enthusiasm did not require adjectives in every sentence.

Wally attempted to include individual star ratings for each band member.

Roy rated himself six stars.

The work took most of a weekend.

They gathered at your apartment on Saturday afternoon with food, cables, laptops, and no understanding of how much space four musicians could occupy when none of them brought instruments. Dick sat beside you at the table and answered venue questions. Jason reviewed every date and fee. Wally paced while reading possible biographies aloud. Roy lay across the couch and offered unhelpful slogans.

At midnight, you were still correcting the layout.

Dick placed a plate beside your laptop.

You glanced at it. “What’s this?”

“Dinner.”

“We ate.”

“That was seven hours ago.”

Across the room, Wally was asleep on the floor with one arm over his face. Roy had finally stopped suggesting slogans and fallen asleep on the couch. Jason remained at the other end of the table, reading through venue contracts.

“You could all go home,” you said.

Dick looked offended. “And abandon you with our press kit?”

“You abandoned me with it when you used three fonts.”

“That was before I understood.”

“You still don’t understand.”

“I understand that you’re fixing it.”

He nudged the plate closer.

You ate while working.

Sometime after one in the morning, your concentration began slipping. You reread the same sentence three times without understanding it.

Jason noticed first.

“Stop.”

You looked up. “I’m almost done.”

“You’ve said that for an hour.”

“I need to export the files.”

“You need to sleep.”

“I have class on Monday.”

“It’s Sunday.”

You checked the clock.

Jason closed your laptop.

“Hey.”

“You can finish tomorrow.”

Dick’s hand settled on your shoulder. “He’s right.”

“You’re both deeply irritating.”

“Professionally,” Dick said.

Jason stood and began collecting empty containers.

Roy opened one eye from the couch. “Are we done?”

“No,” you said.

“Yes,” Jason said.

Wally startled awake. “Did we book something?”

“Not yet,” Dick replied.

Wally sat up, hair flattened on one side. “Then why did you wake me?”

“No one woke you.”

“I felt a change in the atmosphere.”

“You snored through the atmosphere,” Roy said.

You looked around your apartment.

Their belongings had spread across every available surface. Dick’s jacket hung over your chair. Jason had reorganized the empty containers into a neat stack. Wally’s phone charger stretched across the floor. Roy’s boots sat beside the couch because you had threatened to remove his kneecaps if he put them on the cushions.

The press kit was unfinished.

The band looked exhausted.

Something in your chest felt painfully full.

🌙📸🎶📸🌙 

The following afternoon, all four returned before you asked.

The finished press kit helped them secure their first show outside the city.

Then another.

A bar owner in Keystone offered them a Friday-night slot if they could arrive early enough for soundcheck. A venue in Blüdhaven wanted them the following evening. Someone in Bristol had seen their photographs and asked whether they could join a Sunday showcase.

Dick printed the emails and brought them to rehearsal.

“This is almost a tour,” Wally said.

Jason studied the dates. “It’s three shows.”

“Three shows in three cities.”

“Bristol is forty minutes away.”

“Do not diminish our cultural expansion.”

Roy took the pages from Jason. “We could add the Thursday show in Burnside.”

“That one doesn’t pay,” Jason said.

“They cover food.”

“They offer one drink ticket per performer.”

“Hydration matters.”

“That’s not hydration.”

Dick looked toward you.

You were sitting in your usual chair with the camera beside your feet, watching the discussion become a plan.

The dates spread across the workbench. Three shows became four when Roy called a venue owner he knew. Wally found an open-mic night along the route and insisted it counted. Jason calculated fuel costs, accommodation, and how many shirts they would need to sell before the trip stopped actively losing money.

They argued about transportation next.

Roy’s truck could carry the drums and amplifiers but not five people safely. Dick could borrow a van from a cousin, provided they returned it with the same number of doors. Wally volunteered to drive until Jason reminded everyone that he had accumulated three speeding tickets in one year.

“They were administrative disagreements,” Wally said.

“They were recorded by cameras.”

“Machines lack context.”

“You were going twenty-three miles over the limit.”

“The road was empty.”

“You’re not driving.”

Roy drew another line across the map. “If we leave Thursday morning, we can make Burnside before soundcheck.”

“I have class Thursday morning,” you said.

The room quieted briefly.

You had spoken without thinking. The schedule was theirs, not yours. You were not performing, transporting equipment, or being paid to attend.

Jason crossed out the departure time.

“We leave after.”

“You don’t have to change it.”

“We can make it,” Dick said.

“You’ll be cutting it close.”

Roy checked the map. “We’ll still have forty minutes.”

“Assuming Wally doesn’t need to stop every hour,” Jason added.

“I have a fast metabolism.”

“You buy candy.”

“That’s fuel.”

You watched Jason write a new departure time.

No one asked whether changing the schedule around you made sense.

They treated your availability as another fixed part of the tour, like the venue addresses and equipment requirements.

You took pictures while they argued.

The photographs were not remarkable individually. Dick leaning over the map with a pen between his teeth. Wally pointing at a route on his phone. Roy sitting backward on a chair while Jason explained why sleeping in the vehicle wasn’t a financial strategy.

Together, they documented the moment Night Signal began extending beyond the city that created it.

You packed your camera after midnight.

Dick was waiting near the garage door.

The others had become suspiciously quiet behind him. Wally was pretending to organize cables. Roy was seated at the drums without touching them. Jason held a sheet of paper.

“What?” you asked.

Dick smiled.

It wasn’t his stage smile or the polished one he used on venue managers. This was the expression he wore immediately before asking for something he had already decided mattered.

“We have a question.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It isn’t.”

“That’s what people say before ominous questions.”

Roy spun a drumstick between his fingers. “We need a photographer.”

You glanced toward the pages on the workbench. “For the new promotional material?”

“For the shows,” Dick said.

Your hand remained on the strap of your camera bag.

“All of them?”

Wally abandoned the cables. “That’s generally how touring works.”

“It’s five shows.”

“Six,” Roy said.

Jason looked at him. “What did you do?”

“Found us a Wednesday.”

“In another state?”

“It’s barely another state.”

“That’s not a measurement.”

Dick lifted one hand before the argument could gather momentum.

“We want you to come with us.”

You stared at him.

The trip would last eight days if the additional show became definite. They had no proper transportation plan, no confirmed place to sleep after two performances, and barely enough money to cover fuel costs.

“You can’t afford a tour photographer.”

“We can pay something,” Jason said.

He held out the paper.

It was a budget.

Your name appeared beneath theirs, followed by a modest daily rate, shared accommodation, meals, transportation, and a percentage of merchandise sales. The total wasn’t much. It was more than you expected them to offer.

“You included me before you knew whether I could go.”

“We were optimistic,” Dick said.

“You built the route around my class schedule.”

Jason’s eyes shifted briefly toward Wally.

Wally looked at the ceiling.

“You told us when your winter session ended,” Dick said.

“Months ago.”

“We remember things.”

“You don’t remember soundcheck times.”

“That’s why Jason exists.”

Jason ignored him. “If the rate isn’t enough, say so.”

“It isn’t about that.”

“What is it about?” Roy asked.

You looked at the four of them.

They had stopped joking.

The proposal should have felt like another favor between friends. You had attended nearly every performance already, and eight days was not long enough to transform the arrangement into something fundamentally different.

Yet the paper in Jason’s hand made the change visible.

They had not assumed you would come.

They had planned for you.

“You could take pictures yourselves,” you said.

Wally made a face. “You’ve seen the pictures I take.”

“You cut off everyone’s head.”

“I’m interested in composition.”

“You took fourteen photographs of your thumb.”

“It has character.”

“You don’t need someone at every show,” you continued. “You’re still building an audience. You could save the money for equipment.”

Jason folded the budget once, the movement precise.

“We could.”

The answer surprised you.

Dick stepped closer.

“We don’t want to.”

You searched his face. “Because you need content?”

“That’s part of it.”

“You need new pictures for the press kit.”

“Yes.”

“The venues want promotional material.”

“They do.”

You waited.

Dick’s gaze remained on yours.

Behind him, Wally had become unnaturally still. Roy’s flirtatious ease was absent. Jason held the budget at his side as though he had already made every argument he intended to make.

“You make us look like ourselves,” Dick said. “Even when we don’t know what that looks like yet.”

Your fingers tightened around the camera strap.

“That sounds rehearsed.”

“I tried three versions in the car.”

“Four,” Jason said.

Dick glanced back. “You said the second one didn’t count.”

“It was nearly identical to the first.”

“That doesn’t make it less sincere.”

Roy leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “We want you there.”

The simplicity of it unsettled you more than Dick’s prepared explanation.

“For the pictures,” you said.

“For the pictures,” Roy agreed.

Something passed between the four of them.

You didn’t understand it.

Wally came closer, stopping beside Dick. “And because you’re already part of this.”

“I’m not in the band.”

“No,” Jason said.

The answer was immediate.

Then he looked at the others, perhaps realizing how it sounded.

“You don’t play an instrument,” he clarified.

“I know.”

“You named us,” Dick said.

“Accidentally.”

“You made the first post,” Wally added.

“Because none of you knew how to edit a photograph.”

“You built the press kit,” Roy said.

“Because Dick committed crimes against typography.”

Dick pressed a hand to his chest. “It was expressive.”

“You took every photograph anyone cares about,” Jason finished.

The room became quiet.

There were moments when you saw the four of them as the rest of the world eventually might. Dick beneath a spotlight, holding a room with nothing but his voice. Jason steady at his side, quiet until the music demanded attention. Wally moving across the stage faster than your shutter could follow. Roy half-hidden behind the drums, controlling the pulse beneath all of them.

Most of the time, you saw your friends.

Dick sending voice messages from the restaurant stockroom. Jason placing coffee beside your laptop without asking. Wally calling at midnight because he had discovered an idea too urgent to survive until morning. Roy leaning against your chair after rehearsals, flirting until your laughter convinced him you were all right.

You did not know what Night Signal might become.

You knew you wanted to see it.

“When do we leave?” you asked.

The room erupted.

Wally caught you first, arms wrapping around your waist before you could protect the camera bag between you. He lifted you several inches from the floor.

“Put me down.”

“She said yes.”

“I was here.”

Dick joined the embrace from the side, laughing as you attempted to save both your equipment and your ribs. Roy abandoned the drums and folded himself around the group, one hand settling at the back of your neck.

Jason remained outside the collision.

You looked over Wally’s shoulder.

He was smiling.

It was small and unguarded, the expression you usually had to wait for him to forget the camera before revealing.

“Help me,” you told him.

“You made your decision.”

“You were the one who made the budget.”

“And you accepted it.”

“This is workplace harassment.”

“You haven’t signed anything yet.”

Roy loosened his grip enough for you to breathe. Dick took the camera bag before Wally crushed it. When your feet returned to the concrete, you reached toward Jason.

He looked at your hand.

Then he stepped close enough for you to catch his sleeve and pull him into the edge of the embrace.

Jason tolerated it for several seconds before muttering that everyone needed to move.

No one listened.

Later, after the others had resumed debating vehicles and accommodation, you found the proposed itinerary to be under budget.

The route had been written across the top. Six cities now, assuming Roy’s additional date was confirmed. Beneath it was a list of what they needed to bring.

Dick — microphone, cables, lyric book.

Jason — basses, amplifier, emergency repair kit.

Wally — guitars, pedals, spare strings.

Roy — drums, hardware, merchandise cash box.

Your name appeared last.

Camera equipment, laptop, chargers, press passes.

Someone had drawn a line beneath the five names.

The list had been written before you arrived.

You folded the itinerary and placed it inside your camera bag beside the first printed photograph of Night Signal, the one with the failing light, Wally’s laughter, Jason’s hidden smile, and Roy’s missing foot.

Then you raised your camera and photographed the four of them as they planned their first tour.

They did not stop to pose.

They no longer needed to.

🌙📸🎶📸🌙

📸 Chapter 1— Before the Record

📸 Chapter 2

📸 Chapter 3

📸 Chapter 4

📸 Chapter 5

📸 Chapter 6

📸 Chapter 7

📸 Chapter 8

🌙📸🎶📸🌙