He woke on the stage floor.The ceiling was whole. The air was still. The piano waited.
His hand flew to his chest. No wound. No blood.But the cold from the last moment still clung to him.
"You died again," Lyra said softly.
She stood beside him, her green eyes ringed with exhaustion. White streaked her hair now — thin lines that hadn't been there before.
"You brought me back?" he asked.
She nodded. "But I can't keep doing it. The more I rewind, the more they whisper. And the more I forget… pieces of myself."
Silas pushed himself up. "Then we do it differently. No piano."
They moved toward the backstage exit. The hall was quiet except for their footsteps — until a single, low note vibrated through the air.
Frost bloomed across the curtains. Breath misted in front of them.
A figure stepped out of the shadows.