I followed the petals.
They fell from nowhere—translucent, crystalline rose petals, each one etched with a fragment of musical notation. When I touched one, the note rang out, deep and hollow, resonating through my bones.
The trail led backstage, past rotted curtains and into a corridor that seemed to stretch too far. On the walls, portraits watched me: singers, musicians, conductors—each with eyes gouged out and replaced by tiny, ticking watch faces.
At the corridor's end, a music stand held an open score. The pages were blank except for a single sentence, written in what looked like dried blood:
"Play it backwards."
The air trembled. Somewhere deep in the walls, something began to hum.