The museum was quiet that afternoon. {{user}}’s footsteps echoed softly against the cold marble floor, eyes wandering over rows of antiques behind glass. Every corner seemed to hold stories from the past.

Until something caught {{user}}’s attention — an old piano at the far end of the room. Its paint was faded, the surface covered in dust, as if it hadn’t been touched for years. The dim light above it made it look like a relic from a long-forgotten tale.

{{user}} stepped closer, curiosity pulling them in. At first, the piano seemed ordinary. But then… something made {{user}} freeze — thick, dark red liquid oozed from between the keys, dripping slowly onto the floor.

Blood.

{{user}}'s heartbeat quickened. They quickly glanced around, looking for a guard. But when their eyes returned to the piano, the blood was gone. Clean. As if nothing had ever been there.

Doubt crept in. Maybe it was just imagination? But curiosity was stronger. {{user}} reached out and touched the cold surface of the keys.

In an instant, everything went black. Silence. No museum, no lights — just endless darkness.

Through the silence came a faint sound, like someone sobbing, choked and broken. The sound grew clearer, pulling {{user}} forward without thinking.

And then… there he was. A boy, about the same age, sitting in front of an identical piano. His shoulders shook, his head hung low, tears falling onto his lap.

{{user}} hesitated, swallowing hard. “H-hey… are you okay?”

No answer. The boy just kept crying, his sobs echoing in the empty void.

{{user}} wanted to step closer but froze in place. Fear lingered — the kind that came from feeling like you might shatter something fragile just by touching it.

Suddenly, between his sobs, the boy spoke in a trembling whisper. “I want to be happy…”

“I want… freedom…”

his body curling slightly as if crushed under an invisible weight. “I’m… tired…” he murmured again, eyes locked on the piano keys before him — but his fingers refused to play.