The night was colder than usual. Aria pulled her scarf tighter around her neck as she walked the narrow cobblestone streets of the old district. The streetlamps glowed faintly, their light fractured by the mist rising from the damp ground. Each echo of her footsteps mingled with the hollow silence that seemed to follow her everywhere since that night at the piano.
She hadn't been able to get Elias out of her head. His presence—both gentle and haunting—clung to her thoughts like a melody she couldn't stop humming. And yet, when she searched online, in music forums, in old concert archives, no trace of him existed. It was as though he'd been nothing more than a figment of her imagination, conjured by grief and loneliness.
But her heart refused to believe it.
Her steps slowed as she reached a worn wooden door at the end of the alley. Above it hung a faded sign: "Vinyl & Verse." The bookstore had been around for decades, a place where collectors and dreamers met. Aria had always passed by but never stepped inside. Tonight, something pulled her in.
The faint jingle of a bell announced her entrance.
Inside, the shop smelled of dust and ink, with rows of shelves leaning under the weight of old records, forgotten novels, and stacks of sheet music. A gramophone in the corner played a faint jazz tune, scratchy and warm.
Behind the counter, an old man lifted his eyes from a leather-bound book. His gaze lingered on her as though he'd been expecting her.
"You look like someone searching for a song," he said, his voice deep, textured by age.
Aria hesitated. "I… I'm looking for a man. He played the piano here in the square, a few nights ago. His name is Elias."
At the sound of the name, the man's smile faltered. He closed the book slowly, as if careful not to disturb a memory.
"Elias…" he repeated softly, almost reverently. "It's been a long time since anyone spoke of him."
Aria's pulse quickened. "So you know him?"
The man leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant. "Know him? Perhaps. Or perhaps I only know the music he left behind. He was… different. Not quite belonging to this world, yet unable to leave it entirely."
Aria frowned. "What do you mean?"
The man chuckled, though it lacked warmth. "You've heard his playing, haven't you? Then you already know. That kind of music doesn't come from a place of simple practice or talent. It comes from wounds so deep, the world itself struggles to carry them."
Her breath caught in her throat. Wounds. She thought of the way Elias's eyes had glimmered, like stars drowning in a sea of sorrow.
"I need to find him," she whispered, more to herself than to the old man. "Please. Do you know where he is?"
The man studied her for a long moment, then rose slowly, his joints creaking. He walked toward a dusty shelf and pulled out a thin folder, yellowed with age. From it, he drew a piece of sheet music. The title read: "Silence."
Aria's chest tightened.
"This," the man said, handing it to her, "is the only trace he ever left here. A composition that was never finished. People say it carries a curse—that those who try to play it are haunted by echoes of their own regrets."
Her fingers trembled as she held the paper. The notes were written in uneven strokes, as though the hand that had penned them was trembling.
She swallowed hard. "Did he… vanish?"
The man didn't answer. He only looked at her with weary eyes and said, "Be careful, child. Some silences are louder than screams."
---
That night, back in her small apartment, Aria placed the sheet music on her piano. Her heart raced. Her fingers hovered above the keys, hesitant, trembling.
She pressed down on the first note.
The sound was soft, almost fragile, but it lingered unnaturally in the air. As though the room itself was holding its breath.
She played the next chord.
And then another.
The melody unfolded, broken yet beautiful, incomplete yet undeniable. With every note, memories surfaced—her father's laughter, the last argument they'd had before his death, the funeral where she'd stood in silence because she couldn't bring herself to cry.
Tears blurred her vision, dripping onto the keys.
Then, faintly—so faintly she thought she imagined it—she heard another piano respond. A second melody weaving around hers, filling in the gaps.
Her hands froze.
Slowly, she turned her head.
There, by the window, bathed in pale moonlight, was Elias. His hands were poised as if over an invisible keyboard, his eyes locked onto hers. The music flowed from him without sound, yet she heard it as clearly as if he sat beside her.
"Why are you doing this?" Aria whispered, her voice trembling.
Elias tilted his head, his expression unreadable. His lips parted, but no sound came out. Only silence. A silence that screamed louder than words.
Then, just as suddenly as he appeared, he was gone.
Aria gasped, her chest heaving. Her trembling fingers clutched the unfinished sheet music. The silence in the room pressed against her, suffocating yet irresistible.
She knew, with terrifying clarity, that this was no longer about curiosity. It was about survival. About unraveling a truth buried too deep for the world to bear.
And she was already in too deep to turn back.
---
The next morning, Aria woke with dark circles under her eyes. The city outside bustled with indifference, but inside her, everything had shifted. She tucked the sheet music into her bag, her heart set on one decision: she would follow the echoes until she found Elias—or until the silence consumed her too.