Eli couldn't move. The words on the sheet music repeated in his mind like a drumbeat: "Finish the song. Something you love won't survive the dawn."
The girl on the stage didn't move either. She seemed almost unreal. The moonlight falling through the broken roof haloed her white dress, making her look like a spirit rather than a living person.
He cleared his throat. "Who are you?"
She hesitated. For a long moment, the theater held only the sound of his own ragged breathing. Finally, she spoke, voice quiet but firm.
"Someone who knows what happens if you play the last note."
Eli's mind spun. "You know about the song?"
Her eyes darted toward the sheet music. "I've heard it before. I've seen what it does."
A chill ran down his spine. "What does it do?"
She took a careful step closer, keeping just enough distance to make him uncomfortable. "It predicts events. Not just any events… your events. Every note is tied to reality. Every chord a consequence."
He swallowed hard. "That's impossible. Music can't do that."
She shook her head. "Some things you think are impossible are the only truths."
Eli's heart pounded. He wanted to laugh, to tell himself he'd lost it, that it was exhaustion or imagination. But when he glanced at the final measure of the song, the one that had written itself the ink still shimmered faintly, as if alive.
"You're not lying." He said it as much to himself as to her.
The girl tilted her head, studying him. "You don't understand yet. If you finish the song it will demand a cost."
"What cost?" His voice cracked. "My life? My soul?"
She shook her head slowly. "Something you care about. Something you love."
Eli's mind raced. Family? His old band? His dreams? How could a song know what he loved?
A sudden sound made both of them flinch. Somewhere backstage, a floorboard creaked. Shadows danced along the walls, twisting unnaturally in the moonlight.
"You're not alone," she whispered.
Eli's instincts screamed at him to run. Yet, his curiosity rooted him to the spot. He had to know. He had to know what the song wanted.
"I don't even know how to finish it," he admitted.
"You will," she said, stepping closer. Her voice was calm, but her eyes held fear. "You always do… whether you want to or not."
Eli stared at her, trying to find some anchor in the surreal scene. She was real. He could see it in the way the moonlight kissed her hair, the way her chest rose with measured breathing. And yet something about her felt untouchable, like she belonged to a world slightly out of phase with his own.
"Why me?" he asked finally. "Why this song?"
She exhaled. "Because it chooses who it needs. It chooses you."
He laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Chosen. Great. Just what I needed. A cursed piano and a talking fortune teller."
Her lips quirked, barely a smile. "Not a fortune teller. A warning."
Eli glanced down at the sheet music. The final line remained empty. The ink shimmered faintly, as if inviting him. The temptation to play it again pulsed through him.
"You're going to play it, aren't you?" she asked quietly, reading him like an open book.
He didn't answer. His hands hovered above the keys. He could feel it, the pull, the need to hear the song, to understand the story it wanted to tell.
Then a sudden, harsh sound broke the fragile silence. A sharp gust of wind slammed through the broken windows, scattering sheet music across the stage. One page landed at his feet, fluttering like a trapped bird.
He picked it up. Words had appeared on it.
"Do not trust anyone. The next note decides everything."
Eli froze.
"Next note… decides everything?" he whispered.
The girl's eyes darkened. "It's not a threat. It's truth. Once you play it, there's no going back."
He stared at the piano, then at her. The pull of the song was overwhelming, but fear gripped his chest like iron.
A new sound startled him a soft, deliberate tapping from the theater entrance. Heavy footsteps, slow, precise. Someone was coming.
He and the girl exchanged a glance. Neither spoke. Neither moved.
The song, the girl, the footsteps,
Everything was converging.
Eli's hands trembled as he reached for the keys.
Somewhere deep inside, he knew:
Once he plays the next note everything changes.