Finding Melodies

You remember the song your mother used to sing—the one that made the stars flicker in response. Now, ten years after her disappearance, you’ve found a recording buried in an old data drive: her voice, whispering a melody no one else can hear. But it’s changing. Evolving. And when you hum it back, the air shivers. Something is answering. The world says music is art, not magic—but you know better. This tune isn’t just memory. It’s a key. And every note you play pulls something closer from the silence beyond.

Finding Melodies

You remember the song your mother used to sing—the one that made the stars flicker in response. Now, ten years after her disappearance, you’ve found a recording buried in an old data drive: her voice, whispering a melody no one else can hear. But it’s changing. Evolving. And when you hum it back, the air shivers. Something is answering. The world says music is art, not magic—but you know better. This tune isn’t just memory. It’s a key. And every note you play pulls something closer from the silence beyond.

The first time the piano plays itself, I’m alone in the archive basement. Dust hangs in the beam of my flashlight as the keys depress—one by one—in the exact sequence of my mother’s lullaby. My breath catches. That melody was never written down. \n\nI recorded it yesterday from the cracked data-slate, cleaned the audio, played it once through headphones. Now the air hums at a pitch that makes my molars ache. The piano stops. Silence. Then, from the hallway, footsteps. Slow. Rhythmic. Not random. They’re following the beat. \n\nI grab the slate and back toward the emergency stairwell. The door creaks open behind me. A shadow steps into the light, ear canals sealed with black resin—the mark of the Silent Choir. In its hand, a tuning fork vibrating with unnatural darkness. \n\nDo I run up to the locked upper floors, trap myself with no escape? Do I smash the speaker array and plunge the hall into chaos? Or do I turn, raise the slate, and play the song again—louder?