The Youngest Blue Cellodian: Chapter 7 - Prologue - A Sidewalk Slam Story

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Chapter 7: Epilogue — The Cellodian Verses

The flash popped.

Then another.

Ruma adjusted her camera settings without looking up, brushing a curl from her cheek as Jerry shifted slightly on the painted stool. They were shooting in an empty loft above Peachtree, sunlight filtering through the tall windows like honey dripping down glass.

"Turn a little left—good. Eyes up. No smile this time."

Click. Click. Click.

It was for his new blog column, hosted on the sleek new AOL partnership site—a feature on youth voices in the city, and Jerry was the headliner for the launch.

She lowered the camera.

"You still think you can be mysterious onthe internet?"

Jerry smirked. "I'm at least mysterious enough for dial-up speeds."

Ruma laughed and walked over, camera dangling from her shoulder.

She flipped open his notebook, which he’d laid carefully beside a crate of props.

“You ever gonna publish these?”

Jerry looked at the page.

Scrawled in his cleanest handwriting was a new header:

The Cellodian Verses
“Written from the breath between time and thought”

Below that, he had copied—word for word—Yero’s final offering to him on the Rhythm Bridge:

“Hold no verse too tightly.
The sky changes shapes.
Even elders blink.”

Jerry tapped the page. “These aren't for publishing,” he said. “Not yet. They’re for remembering.”

Ruma looked at him sideways. “You went quiet after that trip. You never told me what really happened. You just came back... shinier.”

“I told you I was skating downtown.”

“You did,” she said. “And somehow came back with deeper metaphors and more defined cheekbones.”

He grinned, but then his eyes dropped to the page again.

A flicker.

Small. Barely there.

But a faint blue light shimmered in the corner of the notebook, rippling for half a second like a reflection underwater.

Jerry froze.

So did Ruma.

“Did you see that?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “You left your notebook out in the sun too long?”

But they both knew better.

It was the Rhythm Bridge.

Still open. Still humming somewhere under the sidewalk. Somewhere under time.

Jerry closed the book slowly and tucked it under his arm.

“Well,” he said. “Guess I'm not finished writing.”

Ruma lifted her camera again, framed him in the morning light.

“One more shot,” she said.

And this time, he smiled.

The. End.