You first heard it on a quiet evening, when the streets were empty and the world felt paused. A melody—soft, haunting, impossibly beautiful—floated through the air. You froze, straining to hear.

No one else seemed to notice. Only you could hear it.

You followed the sound, heart pounding, down twisting alleys and past shuttered buildings. And there she was—Kaya. Standing under the glow of a flickering streetlight, her lips moving as if singing, yet no sound reached anyone but you. Her eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, it felt like the world had fallen away.

The melody wasn’t just a song. It was a call, a warning, a story you couldn’t fully understand but felt deep in your bones. Strange things happened whenever you traced it: shadows stretched unnaturally, streetlights flickered, and the city seemed to bend around her presence.

You wanted to speak, to ask why she sang, but your words dissolved in the air. And yet, you understood. Each note carried meaning: longing, sorrow, joy… and something dangerous, hidden beneath the surface.

Days went on, and you never stopped hearing it. In class, on the subway, in your dreams—the melody always found you, always led you to her. But every time, she stayed just out of reach, the invisible thread between you taut and unbroken.

One night, under that same streetlight, Kaya tilted her head and smiled softly.

“You hear me,” she said, though the song had already spoken the words. “I sing only for you. Only you can listen.”