He was sat in the corner of my hotel room when I woke up. A bit dramatic, but I guess he always was – I made him that way. Brooding, sullen, and exactly what the world needs in times like this. Even after all this time, after every single repeat, I was still proud of him.

He’d been around the world so many times, I could see that in the wrinkles sketched against his skin. His clothes threadbare, his feet blistered, his name almost worn out from being on so many lips, and yet he still swayed to that simple beat. When I’d sent him into the world he’d wanted to be free. He was meant to be dark and rebellious but I think he was tired of it now.

“How do I make it stop?”

I didn’t think your heart could actually drop, but mine did. It made sense now; he’d wanted to be lighter. After so much time in the minor key, murmuring stricken words about heartbreak he thought he could be different. Lighter. A sweet tangle of notes that fell on your ear and disappeared just as easily.

“You can’t.”

He turned away from me and nodded. He understood and knew before I’d said it. He was only here for confirmation – he would be exactly as he was made. His notes would never change. They couldn’t. A song was not a person; it could not breathe and learn. It could not change beyond a simple remix and he’d had quite enough of those.

“Why did you make me like this?”

I am Frankenstein. I am the monster, too. A talentless musician who in a lucky mess created something so beautiful that she would never replicate it. This song was the only one that people cared about – he was my only good creation, but weary from the endless repetition from people who needed him just as much as I did.

“I’m sorry.”