Turning Time
Dodora Leland had spent the winter months hunched over a battered notebook, the only thing keeping her awake was the relentless hiss of the cheap heater in her one-room flat. Her manuscript was a mess of half-finished chapters and scribbled marginalia. The publisher’s rejection letter still lay on her desk, the ink still fresh. When a friend texted her about tickets to a Night Dusk show, she saw it as a last-ditch attempt to find a spark. If the crowd’s roar could nudge her imagination, maybe the words would finally line up.
The club the heart of the city, bathed in pulsing violet and amber. The stage was a slab of reclaimed wood, draped with strings of fairy lights. As the opening chords of “Midnight Mirage” thudded through the speakers, Dodora slipped into the darkness, her notebook pressed to her chest like a talisman.
When Kane Saymore, Night Dusk’s frontman, stepped into the light, the room seemed to hold its breath. He was taller than she imagined, his shaggy blonde perm bouncing as he moved, the silver chain around his neck catching the spotlights. His voice was a smoky baritone that wrapped around each lyric, pulling the audience into an intimate confession.
Dodora felt the music coil around her ribs, each note a thread tugging at a part of her story she didn’t know was there. When the set ended and the crowd roared for an encore, Dodora found herself at the edge of the stage door, heart thudding faster than the bass. She shoved past the security guard—who gave her a bemused smile when he saw the notebook in her hand—and approached Kane, who was wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Hi, I’m Dodora,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m a huge fan. Your music… it’s exactly what I needed to hear tonight.”
Kane turned, his blue eyes catching the fluorescence of the club lights. “Nice to meet you, Dodora. I’m Kane. What’s your story?”
She laughed, a nervous little sound. “I’m a… struggling author. I’m working on a novel about love. I was hoping the concert would give me an idea for the ending.”
He tilted his head, amused. “love huh? That’s pretty cool. Want an autograph?”
She handed him a pen, and he let the ink flow across the page, his hand steady. He signed her notebook with a flourish, added a tiny doodle of a heart, then slipped a Polaroid of herself with the band into her pocket.
“Hey, do you have Instagram?” Kane asked, a mischievous grin forming.
Dodora’s phone buzzed. “Just a… 4k followers. I’m more into reading than posting.”
“We should stay in touch,” he said, tapping his phone. “You never know when a writer might need a band’s help.”
A few days later, a notification lit up her screen: Kane Seymour sent you a friend request. Dodora stared, half-expectant, half-sceptical. Could the band’s social-media team be playing a joke? She clicked the profile picture—no filters, just Kane’s face, the same shaggy hair and that teasing smile. A thrill shot through her, and she accepted.
The chat started with a simple “Hey, Dodora! How’s the manuscript coming along?” followed by a flurry of emojis, song snippets, and questions about her favourite authors. Their banter felt effortless, a back-and-forth that made her forget the deadline panic that usually gnawed at her.
Two months later, Kane messaged, “Video call tomorrow? I’ve got the band on. I’d like you join?”
Dodora’s stomach did a flip. When the screen lit up, she saw three more familiar faces: Tarquin—lead guitarist, a lanky guy with a tattoo of a compass on his forearm; Jabez—drummer, short, always laughing; Greg base guitarist, his hair a tangled mass of curls. And ant keyboard player And at the centre, Kane, who gave her a warm wave.
“We’ve been thinking about a new video for our upcoming single, ‘Turn Time,’” Kane began, his eyes never leaving the camera. “We love what you write, and we think you could be a part of it.”
Dodora’s mind raced. “But I’ve never acted, never been on a set—”
“Don’t worry,” Jabez said, flicking a drumstick between his fingers. “It’ll be low-key. Just be you.”
Greg leaned forward. “We want to feature your books. Your name, your cover art, right in the opening frames. Then the story will sort of mirror your own—time shifting, love, the whole thing.”
Dodora felt as if a hidden door inside her chest had cracked open. “You… you’d actually put my work in the video?”
Kane’s grin widened. “Your words deserve a wider audience. And honestly? We think you’re gorgeous, Dodora. We’d love to see you on camera.”
She swallowed, cheeks flaring. “Okay… I’d love to.”
The next day, a sleek email arrived: Flight to Los Angeles, June 15. Hotel: The Coral Sands. Room 402. Welcome to the world of Night Dusk. A PDF attached listed a
schedule: lunch with the band, a studio shoot, a beach rehearsal, and the final music video filming.
Dodora’s hands trembled as she printed the itinerary. The idea of moving from a cramped flat in Manchester to a sun-kissed hotel in California felt like stepping onto a different planet. Yet each line on the paper felt like a promise.
The airport was a chaotic blend of rolling suitcases and bright announcements. Kane stood by the arrivals gate, his hair still a perfect mess, a leather jacket draped over his shoulder. He spotted her instantly, his smile widening as he waved.
“Hey, Dodora!” he called, his voice louder than the overhead speakers. “Ready for the adventure?”
She rushed into his embrace, feeling the heat of his body, the faint scent of sandalwood. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered.
Kane led her to a black SUV that took her to The Coral Sands, a boutique hotel perched on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. The lobby smelled of sea salt and citrus, and the windows framed the endless blue horizon. He gave her a quick tour of the room—soft pastel walls, a balcony that opened onto the waves, a full-size desk with a sleek laptop.
“Your desk,” he said, gesturing, “is perfect for the opening scene. You’ll sit there, typing, while the camera pulls back to reveal the beach.”
She laughed, a little nervous. “That sounds… dreamy.”
They walked out onto the balcony, the wind tugging at Kane’s hair. Below, a staff member carried a tray with a chilled bottle of rosé and a spread of fresh cheeses, figs, and crackers. Tarquin, Jabez, Greg, and Ant and their long-time road manager—joined them, each with a beer in hand and a grin that spoke of camaraderie.
“Welcome to California,” Tarquin toasted, raising his glass. “To new stories and good music.”
They settled at the small table, the ocean humming in the background. Dodora placed her notebook on the table, the pages fluttering in the salty breeze.
“What’s the vision for the video?” Dodora asked, curiosity bubbling over the wine.
Greg, eyes bright, leaned forward. “The song’s called ‘Turn Time.’ The idea is that it starts with you, a writer, deep in your craft. Your books are on the table; the screen shows your words. Then—”
kane cut in, his voice low. “—the scene jumps. You’re in bed with me, backs to each other, the morning light slicing through the curtains. I get up, and the camera follows me outside, where there’s an empty beach, no crowds. It’s just us—no fame, just the tide and the sunrise.”
Kane smirked, “And then I’ll be the one pulling you close, pretending we’re in a flashback before the whole thing blew up. It’s a little crazy, but we want the feel of a love story that bends time.”
Dodora felt a blush rise to her cheeks as Kane’s eyes locked onto hers, a softness hidden behind his usual swagger. “You’re the lady it’s about,” he whispered, as if sharing a secret with the sea.
She giggled, the sound mingling with the gulls’ cries. “Okay, I’m in. I’m just… I’ve never done anything like this.”
Kane took her hand across the table, his fingers warm. “You’re going to smash it, babe. Trust me.”
The rest of lunch was a blur of ideas, sketches, and laughter. Tarquin drew a quick storyboard on a napkin, Ant noted camera angles on his phone, and Jabez kept the conversation lively with jokes about backstage mishaps. The band’s chemistry was evident, but there was an undercurrent—each glance toward Dodora was tinged with admiration, each smile seemed to linger a fraction longer.
After they finished, Kane stood, smoothing his jacket. “Tomorrow, we go to the studio. We’ll film the opening. Then you’ll have the beach shoot at sunset. We’ll keep it low key—just us, the crew, and the waves.”
Dodora watched him walk away, his silhouette framed against the pink horizon. It felt unreal, like the world had tilted slightly, aligning her modest life with something larger.
The next day, the studio was a spacious loft with floor-to-ceiling windows. A crew set up a sleek black desk, a laptop, and a stack of printed copies of turning time. Soft, amber lighting bathed the room. Kane stood behind the camera, his eyes never leaving Dodora as she settled into the chair.
“Just… be yourself,” he murmured, adjusting the focus.
She opened her notebook, the cursor blinking on the screen. The camera rolled, capturing her fingers tapping out words, the pages turning slowly. As she typed, the background dissolved into a slow motion of waves crashing—an effect the director added in post-production. The scene felt intimate, like a portal between two worlds.
After a few takes, Kane stepped out of frame, his smile wide. “You were perfect,” he said, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Now, the beach.”
The sun hung low in the sky when they arrived at a secluded stretch of sand. A simple wooden set frame stood on the dunes; a bed draped in white linen nestled against the dunes as if it had always belonged there. The crew set up a single light, mimicking sunrise.
Kane walked onto the beach wearing a loose linen shirt, his hair catching the wind. She wore a turquoise bikini that clung to her lithe frame, the only thing separating her skin from the heat of the day. Over it she threw a light cotton shirt one of Kane light cotton shirts , the fabric fluttering as she stepped onto the sand. the ocean settled back into its tranquil rhythm. Dodora remained perched on the rock, the cotton shirt fluttering She opened her eyes to find the sunrise fully risen, spilling gold across the water, turning the tide into a road of glittering diamonds that stretched beyond the horizon. Kane approached, his gaze soft and unguarded.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.
She nodded, heart pounding like a drum. The director shouted “Action!” Kane wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, He kissed her tenderly, his lips soft against hers, as if the kiss could seal the promise of the sunrise. The camera captured the moment—two silhouettes against the gold dawn, the ocean humming in the background. For a breath, time seemed to pause, the sound of the waves merging with the faint echo of the song playing in the distance.
When the director called “Cut,” Kane lowered his forehead to hers. “You’re amazing,” he said, his breath warm on her skin.
Dodora smiled, tears glistening in her eyes. “I never imagined… I was just a writer in a tiny flat, and now I’m in a music video with you.”
He chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “And now the world will see your books, the story you’re writing, and the story we’re creating together.”
They spent the rest of the day wandering the beach, talking about everything—literature, music, the strange way fate had drawn them together. The band joined them later, playing a few acoustic chords as the sun rose higher. The camaraderie felt like family, but there was a palpable thread between Dodora and Kane, a bond forged not just by professional collaboration but by shared vulnerability.
That night, back at the hotel, the video was edited and uploaded. As the final frame faded, the title Turn Time appeared, followed by a caption: “Featuring the debut novel from Dodora Leland – The views skyrocketed, comments poured in: “Love the story!” “So beautiful!” “New favourite band and author!”
Dodora stared at the screen, heart full. The email from her publisher arrived the next morning, not a rejection this time, but an offer: a publishing contract, a marketing plan, and an invitation to a national tour. She called the number on the letter with trembling hands, reading the acceptance aloud as if it were a love note.
Later, as she sat on the balcony, the Pacific stretching endlessly below, she heard a soft footstep beside her. Kane appeared, a gentle grin on his face, a cup of steaming tea in his hands.
“You did it,” he said, handing her the cup.
She took it, feeling the warmth seep into her palms. “We did it,” she corrected, eyes meeting his.
He pulled her close, and they watched the horizon together, the sun slipping into the water. The world felt expansive, yet intimate—a balance of the big and the small, the public and the private.
The music video played on a loop on the TV, the opening scene of Dodora typing, the beach scenes, the sunrise—each frame a reminder that time, love, and ambition could intertwine.
Dodora’s life had turned a corner she never saw coming. From a cramped flat, a rejected manuscript, and a night at a club, she’d stepped onto a stage wider than she’d ever imagined. The night’s chance—an encounter with a charismatic singer—had become a bridge to a future she once thought unreachable.
She lifted her cup, eyes shining. “To turning time,” she whispered.
Kane clinked his cup against hers, his smile soft but certain. “To turning time—together.”
And as the ocean sang its endless lullaby, Dodora felt the clock inside her finally steady, ticking not in dread of deadlines, but to the rhythm of a heart that had learnesteady, ticking not in dread of deadlines, but to the rhythm of a heart that had learned to beat in duet with another’s. The story she’d been longing to write was already happening, and it was more beautiful than any ending she could have imagined.
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C Langley
Leave a Reply