Year X, 10 Years After the Tragedy
The neon lights on the sign of Café Solitude flickered, casting a sickly red glow amidst the pouring rain. Inside, the scent of stale coffee and cigarettes hung heavy, accompanied by the drone of an ancient fan.
Jonas didn't mind. At least the rickety upright piano in the corner was his—for tonight.
He wasn't playing intricate melodies, only simple minor chords, background music that would go unnoticed by patrons busy with their phones or beer bottles. This was his comfort zone: invisible.
He was a Shadow Performer.
While playing the monotonous repetition, his eyes were fixed on a digital advertisement plastered on the brick wall opposite him. The ad was black and white, featuring the silhouette of a man in front of a glittering grand piano.
"The Echo: Julian Blackwood's Legacy Concert – A Decade of Silence."
Julian Blackwood. A name that always made Jonas feel... strange. They had no blood relation, yet they shared the exact same face. Or rather, Jonas shared a face with the ghost who was now an icon.
He adjusted the small earpiece in his ear. "Come on, Kan," he whispered softly into the hidden mic.
Cling!
The cafe door opened, bringing in a gust of cold air and the figure of an elderly man in an expensive, soaked leather jacket. It was Vernon.
The man was a legend. The manager who had transformed Julian Blackwood from a wunderkind into a global maestro. Now, he was a major concert promoter. What was he doing in the dilapidated Café Solitude?
Vernon did not look at the cash register, or the customers. His eyes were fixed directly on Jonas. The gaze was intense, as if Vernon wasn't seeing a pianist, but a newly discovered artifact.
Jonas felt uneasy. He sped up the tempo, hoping the man would leave quickly.
Vernon walked closer, his steps steady. He stood beside the piano, scrutinizing Jonas from head to toe.
"Kid, stop that miserable melody," Vernon's voice was deep and husky, like an old cello.
Jonas froze his fingers. A sudden silence descended upon the cafe.
"I know you," Vernon said, his gaze enveloping every contour of Jonas's face. "It's impossible."
Jonas swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, Sir. You must have the wrong person. I'm just—"
"No," Vernon cut him off, shaking his head slowly. He touched Jonas's cheekbone, a cold, chilling contact. "I am never wrong. These eyes. The way you let your left shoulder drop slightly when you play. Even the way you step on the sustain pedal."
Vernon leaned in, whispering softly, a whisper that changed Jonas's fate forever.
"You are him. You are Julian Blackwood."
Jonas felt a sense of vertigo. He wanted to object, to scream that he was Jonas. But he couldn't. He was too stunned, too afraid, and too... tempted.
Vernon pulled out a metallic black business card, listing a contact number and the logo of Shinobi Corp Entertainment. (Yes, Shinobi Corp had privatized all industries, including the arts).
"Starting tomorrow, forget this Café Solitude," Vernon said. "The world is waiting for you. The world is waiting for your return."
"But I'm not—"
Vernon smirked, a deadly smile promising wealth. "Nobody cares, kid. All that matters is that you'll make them believe."
"You are the Echo. And a good Echo... sounds exactly like the original voice."
Vernon turned and left the cafe as quickly as he arrived, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and a promise that was intoxicating.
Jonas stared at the business card, then at his reflection in the shiny piano lid. He didn't see himself. He saw an unfamiliar shadow, known to the entire world.
I'm not him. But under the pressure of money and loneliness, Vernon's whisper began to echo in his mind. Am I really that different from him?
Jonas raised his hands. He didn't play his own notes. He started playing Julian's Opus Eterna, a score he had memorized since middle school.
His performance was perfect. Perfect, but cold.
---
Jonas played Opus Eterna with hands that didn't feel like his own—
or at least, that was how it felt.
The music flowed from his fingers like rain sliding down a windowpane, but it carried no warmth.
He let each phrase fall with precision, yet without a soul.
One by one, the café's customers stopped talking, as if drawn by something they couldn't see.
They turned.
Even the old fan buzzing in the corner sounded like it was holding its breath.
Jonas closed his eyes.
For a moment, he imagined Julian standing behind him, leaning over, correcting the angle of his arm like a teacher guiding a student.
He imagined the ghost whispering tempo.
Imagined the spotlights, the cheering crowds of stages he had never stepped on.
And at the exact peak of the climax, he stopped.
The final note hung in the air like something broken.
He opened his eyes, and realized several things at once:
One — the café was silent, as silent as a concert hall before applause.
Two — he wasn't breathing.
Three — the advertisement screen on the wall, which previously showed a cheap coffee promo, now displayed a poster of Julian Blackwood:
a face identical to his own, with a red tagline:
"THE ECHO RETURNS — SOON."
Jonas froze.
He didn't know whether it was coincidence or something far more sinister.
But his chest started to tighten.
"Jonas?"
The voice came from behind the bar.
Kan—owner of the café and an old friend—stood with a towel over his shoulder.
He looked at Jonas as though he had just realized something far too late.
"Are you… okay?"
Jonas swallowed; his voice cracked. "I don't know."
Kan came closer, eyes filled with questions. "Just now… your playing… it—"
"Wasn't me," Jonas cut in quickly.
He wiped the cold sweat from his temple.
"It wasn't me."
Kan opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.
He glanced toward the door where Vernon had disappeared earlier.
Someone like Vernon wouldn't walk into Café Solitude without a reason.
And that reason was now standing right in front of Kan.
"Did he want something from you?" Kan asked softly.
Jonas didn't answer.
He simply placed the black business card on the piano, as if the object was hot enough to burn skin.
Kan stared at the card for a long time before exhaling.
"Shinobi Corp.
Be careful, Jon. They never come to give.
They come to take."
Jonas knew.
He knew that better than anyone.
He straightened the piano bench and grabbed his worn-out thin jacket.
The rain outside was still heavy, like a curtain dividing his old world from a new one he did not want.
On his way home through the dim narrow alley, Jonas checked his phone.
Notifications chimed one after another—
new hashtags trending:
#BlackwoodLives
#TheEchoReturns
#JulianReborn
Jonas stopped walking.
The largest Julian fanbase account had posted a photo of Vernon leaving Café Solitude—
staring straight at the camera, soaked, wearing a faint smile.
The caption read:
"He's back."
Jonas's throat went dry.
He turned off his phone and quickened his steps, as if something was chasing him from the darkness behind.
By the time he reached the door of his tiny apartment, he felt something had changed inside him.
A kind of resonance—distorted, false, yet impossible to shake off.
He lay on his thin mattress, staring up at the cracked ceiling.
But his mind kept repeating Vernon's words.
You are him.
You are Julian Blackwood.
Right before he fell asleep, he heard faint piano notes inside his head.
Not his playing.
Not the version he'd practiced for years.
Julian's version.
Warmer.
More alive.
More… dangerous.
Jonas's eyes flew open.
Because he knew one thing he mustn't say aloud:
The sound wasn't imagination.
It was a memory.
A memory that wasn't his.
---
Jonas sat upright, his body tense as if an invisible hand were pulling his spine straight.
The piano sound was still echoing in his head—soft, layered, like it was being played in an abandoned concert hall left untouched for years.
He covered his ears.
The sound remained.
Not hallucination. Not tinnitus.
The melody was too clear, too nuanced, too… alive.
Jonas rose from his mattress and switched on the small lamp in the corner.
Its dim yellow light cast long shadows on the stained walls.
"I'm Jonas," he whispered.
He stared at his reflection in the rain-streaked window.
"I'm not him."
But his reflection looked unconvinced.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
Just suggestion. Just because Vernon came.
Just because I played Opus Eterna again.
But his mind rejected the excuse.
He knew the melody he'd just heard had never been published by Julian.
He knew every contour of Opus Eterna as well as he knew the shape of his own fingers—
and the notes that played just now… weren't part of the piece.
As if there was a continuation that had never been revealed.
As if the memory belonged to someone who shouldn't be able to remember anything anymore.
He gripped his hair, frustrated.
The rain outside grew heavier, making the windowpane faintly tremble.
The night air turned colder.
His phone buzzed.
Jonas checked it without interest—
but the screen froze him in place.
An anonymous message.
No sender name.
No profile picture.
"SLEEP WELL TONIGHT, JULIAN."
Jonas's eyes widened; his stomach twisted.
With trembling fingers, he typed back:
"I'm not Julian. You've got the wrong person."
The "typing…" indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then:
"YOU WILL BECOME HIM.
OR YOU WILL FOLLOW HIM INTO THE GROUND."
Jonas nearly dropped the phone.
He shut off the screen quickly and slid down to the floor, his back pressed against the cold wall.
His breathing turned uneven.
Something crawled along his spine—a fear too familiar for someone who had lived on society's margins his entire life.
He reached for his small guitar bag where he kept a few important things:
his passport, some cash, and a small notebook filled with musical sketches he had never played for anyone.
He opened the notebook.
On the first page, in his old handwriting, were the words:
"For me. One day."
Jonas stared at the writing.
His hands trembled.
He closed the book again.
There would be no "one day" if Vernon—or whoever was behind that message—got what they wanted.
Suddenly, a noise from the apartment hallway startled him.
Footsteps.
Stopping right in front of his door.
Jonas held his breath.
A pair of shadows appeared beneath the door's gap.
Two sets of feet.
Not moving.
Just standing there.
Waiting.
Jonas reached for the doorknob…
then stopped when he heard the sound of a key turning from outside.
Someone was trying to get in.
Jonas stepped back.
One step. Two.
He grabbed the small wooden chair, holding it like a weapon.
The key turned again.
Faster.
Harder.
Someone was forcing the lock.
Jonas felt his whole body freeze, but his mind raced:
Run. Throw the chair. Call the police. Hide. Do something.
But before he could move, a heavy thud interrupted everything—
a pounding noise, like a fist.
Then a muffled shout from behind the door:
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?! People live here, you know?!
If you wanna make trouble, do it somewhere else! It's raining, for God's sake!"
The voice belonged to Pak Rimba, the notoriously grumpy landlord on the lower floor, known for always carrying a bamboo broom like a weapon.
Panicked footsteps followed.
The shadows fled, running down the stairs.
Silence returned.
Jonas stood frozen for nearly a full minute before he finally moved to check the door.
The handle was still warm, as if freshly touched.
He locked the door three times, fastened every extra latch, and stepped back.
The piano sound in his head was gone.
Replaced by the chaotic pounding of his heart.
He looked again at his notebook.
Julian had Opus Eterna.
He had something he hadn't named yet.
But tonight, Jonas understood something for the first time:
Someone didn't just want him to become Julian.
Someone didn't want Jonas to exist at all.
---