The stage lights were blinding, but the silence was worse.
Luna gripped the microphone, her knuckles white. The indie music festival crowd was a sea of blurred faces, indifferent to the raw tremor in her voice. She had poured everything into this song—her father's abandonment, her mother's illness, the years of singing in empty bars for tips that didn't cover rent.
"And if the sky falls down on me… will you remember my melody?"
Her final note hung in the air, trembling, honest… and met with scattered, half-hearted applause.
Something in her chest cracked—not metaphorically. A searing pain tore through her heart. Stress? Exhaustion? She stumbled backward, the world tilting.
The last thing she saw was the glitter of her red jade microphone pendant, catching the light as she fell.
The last thing she heard was not gasps or screams—but a faint, distant strum, like a guqin plucked across centuries.
Then, silence.