The walls of the opera house began to bleed sound. A chorus of whispers rose from the floorboards, each syllable a trapped soul crying for release. Silas could feel them pressing against his ribcage, each heartbeat amplifying their lament.
Lyra raised her violin, drawing a note that shimmered like glass. The melody coiled around the whispers, coaxing them into harmony. Silas placed his hands on the grand piano, keys reacting to the gravity of his intent. Together, they created a bridge across the fractured space—music powerful enough to bend reality, yet fragile enough to break if mishandled.
As they advanced, the whispers formed spectral forms: fragments of past patrons, performers, and victims of the tyrant. They pleaded silently, lips moving to a song that Silas could almost hear. One figure—a young girl with a cracked porcelain mask—reached toward him. His memory recoiled; he had seen her before, yet he couldn't place where or when.
"Do not fear them," Lyra said, reading his expression. "They are bound, but they are not hostile. Let them guide us."
The girl floated closer, her mask cracking to reveal eyes that mirrored Silas's own. A melody escaped his lips instinctively, harmonizing with Lyra's. The air shimmered, the whispers transforming into a haunting, unified choir.
Suddenly, the tyrant appeared in the center of the hall, his figure cloaked in shadows. Clocks rotated erratically around his head, their hands stabbing toward Silas like daggers. "Ah… the amnesiac composer," he hissed. "You meddle in powers you cannot fathom. Every note, every memory—soon, none will remain."
Silas tightened his jaw. "I will not let you erase everything."
Lyra stepped beside him, bow raised. The two unleashed a symphony of light and sound, a wave that rattled the foundations of the multiverse. Shadows screamed as the music tore through them, yet the tyrant remained, smiling with a patience that belied centuries.
"You cannot undo what has been woven," he said. And then, with a flick of his wrist, the hall folded in on itself.