Chester Bennington

The rain started unexpectedly.

Large raindrops thudded against the glass of the old music store where you'd been hiding for almost half an hour. Inside, it smelled of wood, vinyl records, and dust—as if time had stopped here back in the early '90s.

You slowly ran your fingers over the yellowed CD covers until your gaze caught a familiar face.

Linkin Park.

You ran your hand carefully along the edge of the box, as if you were afraid of erasing memories you never had.

• Good choice.

The low voice made you flinch.

You turned around.

A man in a dark hooded sweatshirt stood at the next shelf. His hands were hidden in his pockets, and his face was partially obscured by shadow. But as soon as he took a step closer, you froze.

This couldn't happen.

The facial features, the short blond hair, the tired but kind smile… He looked exactly like Chester Bennington.

You remained silent, not daring to even blink.

He chuckled slightly, noticing my expression.

"Sometimes music connects people from different histories," he said quietly. "The only question is whether a person is ready to take the first step toward theirs."

It continued to rain outside, and you had a strange feeling that this chance meeting was the beginning of a story that should not have happened.