Sara Duckling stood on the edge of the rooftop, her bare knees pressed into the gritty gravel, wind howling through her pale hair like a ghost trying to pull her back. The city sprawled below her—lights blinking like punctuation marks in a sentence she hadn't finished writing.
She breathed in sharply through her nose, counted to seven, then exhaled with a sudden twitch that made her right eye spasm shut and her left shoulder jerk upward like she was shrugging off some invisible weight.
Tick.
Another breath. Another tic.
This time it was a half-swallowed yelp—something between a laugh and a sob—and her head jerked backward so fast it nearly dislocated her neck. She caught herself just in time, fingers digging into the concrete rim of the rooftop as if that would ground her.
She blinked rapidly, eight times in three seconds. Her body felt like a piano being played by someone who didn't know the notes.
And yet, standing here, staring down at the world from this dizzying height, Sara felt something close to peace.
---
A Life in Tics
Sara wasn't always an albino girl who danced to the rhythm of involuntary spasms. Once, when she was small and soft around the edges, she used to believe that people could see past things like skin color, odd behaviors, or mismatched rhythms.
Her mother had called her "a gift wrapped in cotton." That was before the screaming matches, the slammed doors, the nights spent curled up in the bathtub while her parents argued over whether her tics were a behavioral issue or God punishing them for something they did wrong.
Tourette syndrome came early—first the blinking, then the jerking, then the sounds. By the time she was ten, Sara had been expelled from two schools and diagnosed by four specialists. Each one had a different theory but none offered real solutions.
Then her parents split, and her mother took off without saying goodbye. Just packed her bags and vanished like she'd never existed. Sara remembered watching the car drive away with her face pressed flat against the window, her mouth parted in shock, eyes blinking over and over again like a broken doll.
From there, life became a blur of foster homes, group homes, and barely passing grades. She learned quickly that people either pitied you or feared you. Neither felt good.
So she stopped letting anyone get close.
Instead, Sara taught herself how to survive. She started doing TikTok videos—mocking her own condition, making jokes about her tics, turning pain into punchlines. It earned her a cult following and a small income. People loved laughing at her, even if she was laughing along.
But every night, after the likes rolled in and the comments filled her screen, she'd curl up in bed and cry until her tics turned into full-body convulsions.
Tonight, though, she wasn't crying.
Tonight, she was standing on the edge of a rooftop, preparing to do something stupid.
Something dangerous.
Something defiant .
---
The Dare
It started as a challenge on social media—a dare thrown out by one of her followers.
"You say you don't care what people think? Then prove it. Jump off a building and record it."
At first, she ignored it. But the comment kept popping up, reposted, retweeted, memed. And soon, it became less about the person who wrote it and more about the voice in her head whispering: What if I did?
What if she did jump?
Not because she wanted to die—but because she wanted to live , really live, even for a second, without fear. Without judgment. Without people staring at her like she was some kind of circus act.
So she picked a rooftop—her ex-boyfriend's apartment building, actually. He lived in a high-rise downtown, penthouse suite, inherited from his dead grandfather. She still had the key he'd given her before their last fight, before he told her he couldn't take her unpredictability anymore.
She climbed the stairs slowly, each step echoing in her chest. Her tics got worse the higher she went. Every few floors, she had to stop and let the storm pass. Her limbs jerked, her tongue clicked involuntarily, and once, she dropped to her knees and started giggling uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face.
When she reached the top, she unlocked the door and stepped onto the rooftop.
And now, here she was.
Wind whipping through her hair.
Sky above.
City below.
Heart pounding.
One foot lifted.
Just one.
That was all it would take.
One leap.
One final performance.
---
Interrupted Leap
Before her foot could leave the ledge, a sound shattered the silence.
A sharp, staccato burst of noise—like a hiccup, a cough, and a gasp all rolled into one.
Sara froze.
She turned slowly, heart thudding wildly in her chest.
Standing near the door was a man.
Pale.
Very pale.
White-blond hair, almost silver in the moonlight. Eyes so light they looked like frozen glass—blue-gray, unnatural. His skin was translucent enough to see the faint veins beneath his cheeks.
He wore a long coat, unbuttoned, and under it, a black turtleneck that hugged his lean frame. His posture was rigid, formal, like he was auditioning for a Shakespearean role.
Then he moved.
His head snapped sideways so fast Sara thought it might come off.
Tic.
He muttered something under his breath—nonsense syllables, rapid-fire, indecipherable.
Then he looked at her.
Really looked at her.
And Sara felt something shift inside her.
Because the way he looked at her wasn't pity—or horror—or even curiosity.
It was recognition.
Like he saw himself in her.
---
Rhodes Kissinger
"Please," he said, voice low, hoarse. "Don't jump."
She blinked rapidly, five times, then tilted her head. "Why not?"
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. With each step, another tic wracked his body—his left hand clenched into a fist, his jaw tightened, and he let out a strange grunt.
"I know how it feels," he said. "To want to disappear."
Sara's breath caught. She swallowed hard, forcing down the rising tide of emotion. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you have Tourette's."
Her stomach twisted. She hated that word. Hated what it meant. Hated how it reduced her to a diagnosis.
"I also have it," he continued, gesturing vaguely at himself. "I'm Rhodes Kissinger."
She blinked again. This time, slower.
"Like the pianist?" she asked.
He gave a wry smile. "The one and only."
Sara frowned. "Wait. You're that Rhodes Kissinger? The one who trashed the Steinway during the Vienna concert?"
He winced. "Yes."
She stared at him, disbelief mixing with something else—excitement? Curiosity?
"You're famous," she whispered.
"No," he said. "I used to be."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Sara laughed, sharp and sudden. "Well, Mr. Kissinger, looks like we both have ghosts to outrun tonight."
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Or maybe we can run together."
She snorted. "We're both too broken to keep up."
"And yet," he said, stepping closer. "Here you are. Running anyway."
Sara glanced down at the street below. The cars were like ants now. Tiny. Distant. Safe.
She looked back at Rhodes.
He smiled softly, despite the violent twitch that pulled his lips to the side.
"Come back," he said.
She hesitated.
For a moment, she considered jumping anyway—just to see what it felt like.
But something inside her whispered: Not today.
Slowly, carefully, she pulled her foot back onto solid ground.
Rhodes exhaled, shoulders relaxing.
They stood there for a moment, two white ghosts in the moonlight.
Then he extended his hand.
She looked at it.
Her fingers trembled—not from nerves, but from a tic rippling through her arm.
She reached out.
Their hands touched.
Cold. Familiar. Electric.
---
The First Note
Rhodes led her to the center of the rooftop where the wind was calmer. He sat cross-legged on the gravel, motioning for her to join him.
She hesitated, then crouched beside him.
"I was recording," he said suddenly. "Earlier. When I heard you. I heard your tics."
Sara raised an eyebrow. "Uh… creepy."
He shook his head. "No. Beautiful."
She blinked. "What?"
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Your tics—they have rhythm. Pattern. Music."
Sara stared at him like he'd grown a third eye. Which, knowing him, wouldn't surprise her.
"You're insane," she muttered.
"So are you," he replied. "Doesn't mean you aren't art."
She blinked again, harder this time. Her throat tightened.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small digital recorder.
"I've been collecting sounds," he said. "Voices. Breaths. Laughter. Cries. Tics. All of it. I turn them into music."
He pressed play.
The sound that came out was... haunting. Deep, rhythmic, layered. Tics, laughter, footsteps, whispers. It was chaos arranged into harmony.
And scattered throughout the track—clear as day—were the echoes of her own tics.
She stared at him, stunned.
"You recorded me without asking?"
He shrugged. "You were giving a free concert."
She punched him lightly in the arm. He flinched, then grinned.
"You're weird," she said.
He nodded. "I know."
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind, the hum of the city, the rhythm of their shared existence.
Then Sara turned to him.
"What happens now?"
Rhodes looked at her, his eyes clearer than they had been since he arrived.
"We find out what kind of symphony we can make together."