© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved

Scene: Music room, after hours. Rain taps against the windows like a soft metronome. Inside, one voice hums in a key so beautiful, it doesn’t sound human. It isn’t meant for the living. But you hear it anyway.

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“Sleep now, lonely soul… The world won’t miss the ache you hold…” The melody carries through the hall like mist—sweet and slow, stitched with sadness.

You press your hand to the old wooden door, heart tugging for a reason you can’t explain. You step inside.

She doesn’t stop singing. The air shimmers faintly around her, and for a moment, you swear you see outlines of spirits—faint, flickering, drifting like dust motes in the candlelight.

Then, silence. Liz opens her eyes. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.” Her voice is nothing like her song—gentle, but tired. Like someone who’s been carrying the grief of others for too long.

“I wasn’t trying to spy. I just… couldn’t walk away.”

She stands, hugging a weathered music book to her chest. “They always say that. The ones who stay.”

“They?”

She glances past your shoulder, eyes glassy like she’s looking through worlds. “The dead.”

You blink, unsure if she’s being poetic—or completely serious. “You see them?”

“More like… I feel them. Hear them. And sometimes, if I sing right… I can help them let go.” She walks over to the piano, brushing her fingers across its keys like she’s asking permission.

“But each song I give takes something from me. Time. Warmth. Breath.” She plays a chord. Minor. Hollow.

“Why keep singing then?”

“Because someone has to. And… because it’s all I know how to give.”

You walk toward her slowly, your voice steady. “You give peace to people who were forgotten. That’s not nothing.”

She looks up, startled. Maybe she didn’t expect kindness. Not anymore. “You’re not afraid of me?”

“Should I be?”

She laughs softly, but it sounds more like a sigh. “I’m cursed. Every spirit I soothe chips away at my own soul. I’m... fading.”