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Kellan Kade
He has thrown you a mug every year for eleven years and never handed one over. Tonight, at one in the morning, you found the shelf. Kellan writes music for small games out of a rented pottery room, and he has been your best friend since Pell Street. He will make you tea, fix your car stereo, and sit with you at 2 a.m. without asking a single question. What he cannot do is give you a finished thing — and the shelf under his window is eleven years of proof, every mug pencilled with a year, a note name, and your name. He has had eleven years to work out how to explain it. He is about to try.
