The first night began in silence.The second carried a tune.
All across Musutafu, the city's insomnia folded on itself. News anchors used the phrase "collective resonance" and then pretended they'd coined it. Hospitals reported no power surges, no malfunctions — only an increase in dream activity. The monitors hummed in unison, soft as ocean breath.
By dawn, a hundred videos appeared online: people recording themselves half-awake, mumbling the same rhythm. Four beats. One pause. Then laughter. No one knew why it was funny.
1 | Commission—morning brief
Kurobane's badge let him through three scanners and two layers of bureaucratic calm.Inside, the monitors were music—lines of light sliding like sheet scores.
"Thirty-seven incidents," Imai said. "No casualties. All benign."
"Define benign," Kurobane replied.
"Everyone fell asleep," she said. "At the same time."
He read the map: small towns, dorms, subway cars. A wave pattern moving east to west. "It's spreading slower," he murmured. "It's teaching tempo."
"Or learning it," she said.
They watched a clip from a security cam: commuters sitting upright, phones in hand, breathing in the same interval. No panic. No sound. When the train stopped, they woke as if to applause.
"Task Force wants attribution," Imai said.
"They'll say his name before lunch," Kurobane answered. "Try not to make it a prayer."
2 | Newsfeeds and dreams
Social media renamed the event before officials could: #SymphonyOfSleepers.Clips showed cities halting for five seconds at midnight—lights flickering once, traffic pausing, a collective inhale.
One user posted: "I dreamed of walking in another city. Someone else's shoes fit."Another: "We all shared the same song but hummed different verses."
Comment sections filled with polite arguments about metaphysics and data rates. Advertisers prepared slogans before scientists wrote reports.
Across the ocean, a research team in Berlin found their EEGs spelling words in rhythm: breathe / wait / choose.In Seoul, a subway pianist reported that his keyboard refused to play the same note twice in a row.In Nairobi, a poet woke to find her manuscript rearranged into haiku with perfect meter.
The world was rehearsing something none of them had written.
3 | U.A.—quiet corridors
At U.A., Principal Nezu replaced morning announcements with a simple instruction: "Observe, don't fix."Aizawa nodded like that was a curriculum he could teach.
Students moved through halls as if volume itself were fragile. Kaminari dropped his pencil and whispered an apology to gravity. Uraraka felt lighter than usual and blamed the weather. Yaoyorozu took notes until she realized she was writing lyrics instead of formulas.
Renya arrived last, eyes half-focused, as if the horizon had questions. His shadow stayed still under the desk, neither wide nor shy—just listening.
Aizawa watched him. "You didn't cause this," he said quietly.
"I didn't stop it either," Renya answered.
"That's what growing up feels like," Aizawa said. "Learning that not every echo is yours."
The class practiced rescue drills. None of the equipment misbehaved. Every timer finished a second late, as though respecting the new global etiquette.
4 | Aki—messages in light
At the store, Aki rearranged shelves by instinct. The radio, still taped silent, flickered a pulse on its screen.Four lights. One rest. She smiled. "You're polite," she told it.
Natsume waved her phone. "People are saying dreams sync up at the same minute worldwide. Think it's him?"
Aki bagged oranges, thinking. "If it is, he's letting the world borrow what he already gave back."
That night she left the curtains open. The city outside blinked like an orchestra of fireflies: no rhythm, all sincerity. She dreamed of standing on a balcony of glass, hearing billions breathe, and choosing not to conduct.
5 | Renya—the unseen rehearsal
He couldn't sleep because the world was sleeping for him.
Lying on the dorm floor, he felt the small pulses — tiny, kind, none seeking permission. They overlapped like rainfall learning chords. He reached for the Veil and found it distant but alive, pulsing with the same refrain.
"Are you doing this?" he whispered.
Not this time, it answered from everywhere. They learned the rest of the song themselves.
He almost laughed. Almost. "Then I'm obsolete."
You're reference, it corrected. Not ruler.
He opened his eyes. Through the window, the campus lights dimmed and brightened, not together, but beautifully near.
6 | Commission—late report
Imai wrote the summary by hand. Computers mis-timed her keystrokes.
Findings:
No measurable harm.
Minor deviations in power usage (−0.3 %).
Participants report calm, minor joy, or brief weeping.
Shared phrase recorded in six languages: We'll wait.
She didn't send the file. She folded it into a notebook instead.
Kurobane passed her desk. "You ever think we're witnesses, not scientists?"
"Witnesses write reports too," she said.
He looked toward the skyline, where lights blinked out of sequence. "Good. I like off-tempo."
7 | The Veil Within
Renya closed his eyes and stepped inward.
Inside the Veil, the world was sound — soft, patient, imperfect. Every sleeper's rhythm hung like dust motes. He could see their individuality, their refusal to align.
He reached out; none flinched. They shimmered past, independent, free. The silence he once owned had multiplied into voices.
A whisper threaded through the hum: You are not their silence anymore. You are their memory of choice.
He bowed his head. "Then I'll remember, so they can forget without fear."
He opened his eyes.
Outside, the city woke—messy, uneven, alive.
Last line:
The world had learned to dream without a conductor, and somewhere in that off-beat lullaby, he finally heard peace.