The notes drifted into the ruins like threads of memory, warm against the morning's hush. He played with his eyes closed, fingers moving from instinct more than thought. The crumbling archways above him filtered the sun into pale gold, dust dancing like spirits around the edges of the collapsed sanctuary.
He felt it then.
A ripple in the silence — not sound, but something older, deeper. Like the world itself holding its breath.
His bow paused.
Eyes opened slowly. The space felt different now, not emptier, but fuller. The kind of fullness that made the air taste electric. He turned, half expecting someone behind him, but there was nothing. Only shadow and light. Still, the sense didn't fade.
He stood, the violin still in hand. His gaze drifted upward — and there, far above the ruined arches, something moved. A shimmer, faint and smoky, like wings made of ash and light, dissolving even as he saw them.
The breath caught in his throat.
But the presence retreated.
He didn't know why — only that whatever it was had been watching, listening. And now it was gone. A lingering warmth remained, like a hand that had almost touched his.
He lowered the violin slowly.
"Not yet," he whispered to the empty air, though he didn't know who he meant — or why his chest ached.
Footsteps approached from the edge of the ruin.
He turned just as a familiar figure stepped into view — a young woman in a cloak dusted with travel, her eyes sharp and full of quiet knowing. She carried a satchel of delicate, worn scrolls, and the weight of unspoken truths.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she asked, her voice soft as parchment.
He nodded once.
The daughter of the Chronicler smiled faintly. "Then it begins."