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When acoustics engineer Juno Park returns to stormy Greybridge to help restore a derelict theater, she finds a silence that steals voices. With a lighthouse keeper’s tuning fork, a sharp-eyed barista, her brother, and a stray dog, she must retune a haunted house and return a stolen song.
The bus hissed to a stop by the harbor and Juno stepped down into the smell of wet rope and diesel. Greybridge crouched along the slate water like something that had learned to brace itself against weather, its rows of brick and timber held tight by iron bolts and gossip. Rain slid off her hood and ticked on her suitcase. She paused to listen. For a second, beneath gulls and the clink of mast rings, she caught a thread of sound, a high, stretched whisper that seemed to come from the boarded face of Lyric House.
“You came back in storm season,” said the driver, hauling her case onto the pavement. “You locals always remember after the last sunny day.”
“I remember good coffee,” Juno answered, because the driver had those bright, expectant eyes of small towns. “And the way the clock tower runs five minutes fast.”
“Still does.” He climbed back into the bus. “Welcome home.”
She tugged her suitcase along the slick street. The theater was two blocks up, its sign buried in scaffolding, its columns scabbed with salt. The letters L Y R I C slept under canvas like a shy mouth. It was the only building in Greybridge that still made Juno feel like she might be fourteen again: knees bruised from choir risers, throat raw, ears tilted for the way sound pooled under the dome.
She ducked into the first lit doorway that promised warmth. The bell on the café door made a hollow, sugar-glass chime, and heat fogged her glasses. The barista lifted her chin in greeting. “You look like you know exactly what you want and also like you haven’t slept.”
“Both true.” Juno pushed her hood back. “I’ll take something that tastes like clean slate and forgiveness.”
“That’s a black Americano and a ginger cookie.” The barista moved with economical care, curls pinned up with a pencil. “I’m Rae. You’re… not a trucker. Not a tourist either.”
“Juno.” She took the steaming mug between cold palms. “I used to live here.” She almost said I used to sing here, but the words caught. “I’m here for the theater.”
Rae’s eyes flicked to the rain-streaked windows. “The House eats contractors for breakfast.”
“I’m not a contractor. Acoustics. They hired me to help with the organ restoration.” Juno tasted the coffee. It was bitter and honest. “If they let me in.”
“They will. Maeve’s been asking after a Juno. She’ll be up there now, counting plaster cracks like rosary beads.” Rae slid a cookie across. “On the house. Greybridge has missed having someone who listens for a living.