Epilogue II: The Vienna Requiem
"His name arrived before his plane ever did. The city lit its lamps in his honor."
The Arrival
The golden jet broke through the morning clouds like a chariot from heaven.
Its body was smooth white marble traced in shimmering gold filigree. Along its spine: the single emblem that needed no introduction—a falling feather encased in glass.
Vienna had not seen such a reception since the birth of Mozart.
Red carpets unrolled at the private imperial airstrip.
The global media—silenced by prior agreement—watched from afar, stunned as a fleet of black Rolls Royces lined the tarmac.
And then…
He stepped out.
The Music God
Long Haochen descended the stairs slowly.
Not with arrogance—but with stillness.
His robe was pearl-white with jade threading.
His long black hair was tied back neatly—except for the white strands that fell like moonlight over his eyes.
The braid his mother had woven still graced his back, the silver strap untouched.
Behind him descended his sisters:
Pearl, serene and statuesque.
Crystal, scanning the crowd with her sharp, protective eyes.
Jade, dressed with fire in her step and elegance in her smirk.
Emerald, silent… but watching him like he was her entire sky.
Attendants moved like shadows around them—holding umbrellas, carrying gifts, translating instructions, shielding their every step.
Vienna did not cheer.
They stood.
They watched.
As if they were witnessing not a boy—but a myth.
The Venue
The Vienna Opera House had been remade for this night.
The chandeliers were tuned to refract light according to the frequencies of Haochen's compositions.
The stage was floated above a glass lake mirroring the ceiling stars.
Every guest received a personalized audio experience—calibrated to their emotions through discreet biometric bracelets.Elegy for the Unheard"
A composition written in silence, for the ones who never got to hear him say goodbye.
The Performance
The lights dimmed.
No announcement.
No stage direction.
Only stillness.
Then
One note.
So quiet, so weightless, it was like a breath caught in time.
Then another.
And another.
Elegy for the Unheard had begun.
A song with no chorus.
No repetition.
No applause lines.
This was not a performance.
It was a confession—spilled not in words, but in sound.
The violins trembled with the first cries of life.
The cellos grieved with the sound of a lullaby left unfinished.
Piano keys fell like raindrops against gravestones, each one echoing the words he never got to say:
"Wait for me."
"I'm almost done performing."
"I'm sorry."
Then came silence.
A long, aching silence.
Until the flute broke through with a single, shivering note—his voice.
Not through lyrics.
But through pain.
He lifted his fingers for the final chord, and the entire orchestra stopped playing.
Only he continued.
A single piano solo.
Each note slower than the last.
As if he were saying goodbye to someone who couldn't answer.
And then
One last key.
It lingered.
Faded.
Gone.
The crowd didn't clap.
They couldn't.
People wept in stunned reverence.
And when they rose—they bowed.
To him.
To the grief they finally understood.
To the boy who never said a word… but told the world everything.