The theater was supposed to be empty.
Eli Hart knew this because the building had been condemned three years ago, windows boarded up, power cut, the entrance chained shut like a warning to anyone stupid enough to come inside. The city had plans to tear it down eventually. Offices, maybe luxury apartments. Something clean. Something profitable.
Something that didn't remember music.
Yet here he was, pushing through a broken side door with a flashlight in his hand, dust rising around his boots like the building was exhaling after a long sleep.
He shouldn't be here.
He knew that.
But when you reach the point where quitting feels heavier than failure, you start breaking rules just to feel something again.
The beam of light cut through the darkness, catching rows of torn velvet seats and a stage sagging under its own age. The ceiling was cracked like a spiderweb frozen mid collapse. Posters clung to the walls old concert announcements, names long forgotten, dates from another lifetime.
Eli swallowed.
He used to imagine his name on posters like those.
Used to.
He stepped closer to the stage, heart beating faster for no logical reason. He told himself it was just nerves. Adrenaline. The thrill of trespassing. But the feeling crawled under his skin, deeper than that like the building knew he was here.
Then he saw it.
The piano.
It sat dead center on the stage, untouched by dust, polished black reflecting the weak beam of his flashlight. A grand piano. Beautiful. Whole.
Impossible.
Eli froze.
"There's no way," he whispered.
Pianos didn't survive places like this. They warped. Rusted. Collapsed into useless skeletons of wood and wire. This one looked… alive. As if someone had just finished playing and stepped away.
He climbed onto the stage slowly, half-expecting the floor to give out beneath him. It didn't. The air felt thicker here, heavier, like the space around the piano carried weight.
He circled it.
No graffiti. No broken keys. No water damage.
"What are you doing here?" he murmured.
The piano didn't answer, obviously but the silence felt expectant, almost patient.
Eli sat on the bench.
The leather was cracked but sturdy. He placed his hands on the keys without thinking, fingers moving out of muscle memory older than his disappointments. He hadn't touched a piano in months. Too many rejections. Too many polite smiles from producers who said things like You're talented, but—
He pressed a single key.
The note rang out clear and sharp, echoing through the empty theater.
Eli sucked in a breath.
The sound was perfect.
Too perfect.
He played another note. Then a chord. Then, without meaning to, a melody began to form beneath his hands slow, haunting, unfamiliar.
"This isn't…" He frowned. "I've never played this before."
Yet his fingers moved as if they knew exactly where to go.
The melody felt wrong and right at the same time, like déjà vu wrapped in sound. His chest tightened as the notes filled the room, brushing against something deep and fragile inside him.
Then he noticed the sheet music.
It rested on the stand, yellowed but intact.
Eli leaned forward, heart hammering.
The title was written in neat, deliberate handwriting.
Before Dawn
Below it, staves of music flowed across the page except the last line.
The final measure was blank.
"What?" Eli whispered.
He flipped the page. Nothing. Just empty paper.
A chill slid down his spine.
He returned his attention to the music and started playing from the beginning, following the notes exactly this time. The melody unfolded the same way, every rise and fall precise, intentional.
When he reached the end, his fingers hovered over the keys.
The song stopped.
The silence felt… wrong.
Unfinished.
Eli exhaled shakily and laughed under his breath. "You're losing it. That's all. You're tired."
He reached for his phone to snap a picture of the sheet music proof that this wasn't some hallucination brought on by desperation.
The moment his camera focused,
A new line appeared on the page.
Eli jerked back so fast the bench scraped against the stage.
"What the hell"
The ink was dark, still wet.
Words had formed beneath the music.
Play it again.
His pulse roared in his ears.
"Nope," he said immediately, standing. "Absolutely not."
This was how horror movies started. Abandoned buildings. Mysterious instruments. Messages that appeared when they shouldn't.
He backed away from the piano.
The lights flickered.
Eli froze.
"That's not possible," he whispered. There was no power. He knew that.
The sheet music rustled.
Another line wrote itself.
You came here for a reason.
Eli's throat went dry.
"I came because I had nowhere else to go," he snapped, anger flaring to mask fear. "That doesn't mean"
The next sentence appeared slowly, letter by letter.
You will receive a call in three minutes.
His laugh came out strained. "Oh, come on."
This was ridiculous. A trick. Some elaborate prank. Someone messing with him.
His phone buzzed.
Eli stared at it.
The screen lit up with an unknown number.
The time read 2:57 a.m.
His hands shook as he answered. "Hello?"
A familiar voice came through the speaker.
"Eli?" his former bandmate Marcus said. "I know it's late, but listen. The producer from Raven Street? He just backed out of tomorrow's showcase. They need a replacement. I told them about you."
Eli's heart slammed against his ribs.
"What?"
"They want you there by sunrise," Marcus continued. "I swear I wouldn't call if it wasn't real."
The call ended.
Eli lowered the phone slowly.
The theater felt colder.
He turned back to the piano.
Another line had appeared.
Three minutes, exactly.
"No," Eli breathed. "No, no, no…"
His gaze dropped to the blank final measure.
His chest tightened.
"What do you want?" he asked the empty room.
The answer came without hesitation.
Finish the song.
Eli's fingers curled into fists.
"I don't even know how it ends."
The ink shifted again.
Neither did the last one.
A sound echoed behind him.
Footsteps.
Eli spun around.
Someone stood at the edge of the stage a girl, half-hidden in shadow, moonlight spilling in through the broken ceiling above her. She looked at the piano the way someone looks at a grave.
"You shouldn't play it," she said softly.
Her voice was calm.
But her eyes were afraid.
"If you finish that song," she continued, meeting his gaze, "something you love won't survive the dawn."
Eli's breath caught.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The girl hesitated.
Then she said, "Someone who's already heard the last note."
And for the first time since sitting at the piano, Eli felt something worse than fear.
He felt certain.
The song had already chosen him.