The city pulsed with relentless energy—a cacophony of car horns, hurried footsteps on wet pavement, and the distant hum of conversation that ebbed and flowed like a restless tide. Towering skyscrapers loomed overhead, their glass facades catching the pale light of a sun that struggled to pierce through the winter haze. But amidst the chaos, hidden within a narrow alley cloaked in shadow, was a small music shop. Its sign, worn and cracked with age, bore the faint inscription: Melodies of Time.
Lila Elwood hesitated at the mouth of the alley, tugging her scarf tighter around her neck as a sharp gust of wind bit at her exposed skin. Her breath fogged in the cold air, but she barely noticed. The weight of her professor's words from earlier that day pressed heavily on her chest, a cruel echo that refused to leave her alone.
"Talent isn't enough, Miss Elwood. If you can't bring something unique to the stage, you're just another violinist in a sea of mediocrity."
The words had been delivered with the kind of precision only years of authority could wield, cutting through her like the edge of a finely sharpened bow. She had nodded, her cheeks burning with humiliation, but inside, something had shattered. She had worked so hard, poured everything into her craft, and yet it still wasn't enough.
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she glanced up at the shop's dimly lit sign. She hadn't intended to come here; her feet had simply carried her, as if drawn by some unseen force. The soft chime of a bell announced her arrival as she pushed the door open.
The warmth hit her immediately, a stark contrast to the bitter cold outside. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood, varnish, and something faintly floral, like lavender. Instruments lined the walls, each one lovingly displayed—violins with polished surfaces that gleamed in the soft light, cellos propped up like silent sentinels, and guitars that seemed to hum with the promise of untold melodies.
Behind the counter sat an elderly man, his sharp eyes framed by a face etched with the lines of time. He looked up from a piece of sandpaper he was using on a violin bridge, his gaze resting on her with a mix of curiosity and warmth.
"Looking for something specific?" he asked, his voice gravelly but kind, like the creak of an old oak door.
Lila hesitated, unsure of how to respond. She hadn't come here for anything in particular, yet something about the shop felt... significant. "Just browsing," she murmured, her gaze drifting across the room.
It was then that she saw it.
In the far corner of the shop, almost hidden behind a clutter of old sheet music and discarded bows, was a violin unlike any she had ever seen. Its varnish was darker than mahogany, nearly black, and its surface was adorned with intricate golden engravings that curled like ivy along its edges. The faint glow of the shop's dim lighting seemed to pool around it, as if it were the only thing in the room.
"What's the story with that one?" she asked, stepping closer, her voice barely above a whisper.
The shopkeeper stilled, his sandpaper forgotten. His expression shifted to something more guarded, his weathered hands resting flat on the counter. "That one's... peculiar," he said slowly. "It belonged to a composer—a man named Arden Lyric. A genius in his time, but his life was steeped in tragedy. The violin's been passed from owner to owner for over a century, yet it always finds its way back here."
Lila tilted her head, intrigued by the note of reverence in his tone. "Why does it come back?"
The old man's lips pressed into a thin line. "Some say it's cursed."
She let out a soft laugh, though it carried little humor. "Cursed?"
"Depends on who you ask," he said with a shrug. "But it's not the kind of curse you'd expect. Strange things happen to those who play it. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. But one thing's for sure—it always leaves its mark."
Lila's gaze returned to the violin, her curiosity outweighing the faint unease his words stirred in her. It seemed to call to her, as if it had been waiting. "I'll take it," she said, her voice steady.
---
Her apartment was a reflection of her life—a little messy, a little cramped, but filled with the things she loved. Sheet music was scattered across every surface, curling at the edges from overuse. Her music stand leaned precariously against a stack of books, and half-empty mugs of cold coffee served as impromptu paperweights.
She placed the violin on her small table, running her fingers along its surface. It was warm to the touch, almost unnervingly so, but she brushed the thought aside. The moment she picked up the bow, the world around her seemed to fade.
She began to play.
The melody wasn't one she recognized, yet it poured from her fingers as though it had been waiting for her all along. It was haunting and beautiful, filled with a sorrow so profound that tears pricked at her eyes. The sound was unlike anything she had ever produced before—rich and otherworldly, as if the violin itself was alive.
Then the lights flickered.
The bow stilled in her hand as the room fell silent. She turned, her heart pounding, and froze.
A man stood casually by her bookshelf, his silhouette outlined by the dim glow of her desk lamp. He was tall, his black coat hanging loosely around his broad shoulders. A white scarf draped elegantly around his neck, its ends brushing against his chest. His dark hair was tousled, and his sharp eyes seemed to cut through the dim light, pinning her in place.
"Who are you?" she demanded, clutching the violin against her chest like a shield.
The man smirked, his voice smooth as silk. "I think the better question is: who are you to play my violin?"
Her grip tightened. "Your violin? That's impossible. You're—"
"Dead?" he interrupted, stepping forward with a languid grace. "Yes, so I've been told. But death, as it turns out, isn't as final as one might think."
Lila's breath caught in her throat. "You're... Arden Lyric?"
He gave a small, theatrical bow. "At your service. And might I say, you play beautifully. Though next time, I'd appreciate it if you asked before summoning me."
Her eyes widened. "Summoning you? What are you talking about?"
He sighed, leaning against the edge of her desk as though he belonged there. "That violin binds souls, Miss Elwood—mine and, it seems, now yours. Congratulations."
"Binds souls?" she echoed, her voice trembling.
His lips curved into a mischievous smile. "It seems we're stuck with each other. Shall we make the most of it?"
The room buzzed with a strange energy, the violin still warm in her hands. Lila stared at him, her mind spinning. Whatever she had unleashed, it was far beyond her understanding. But one thing was clear—her life would never be the same.
---