The air thickened until it felt like breathing through silk.Every molecule in the room trembled on the edge of sound; the space between one heartbeat and the next turned elastic, stretching until it almost sang.
And then—he stepped through it.
Not a ghost, not a memory—something else. A body made of vibration, light bent into the shape of longing. Adrian.
He looked almost exactly as he had the night he disappeared: sleeves rolled to his elbows, a faint smear of graphite on his wrist, eyes burning with that strange patience that had always unnerved me.But there was no shadow beneath him. The floor didn't acknowledge his weight.
"Lyra," he said. The syllables rippled outward, stirring the dust motes into orbit around him.I had imagined this moment a thousand times, but none of my fantasies had prepared me for the sound of his voice. It wasn't just heard—it was felt, a tone that resonated in bone.
I didn't move. I was afraid that if I blinked, the universe would change its mind.
He smiled—hesitant, almost shy. "You found the frequency."
My throat tightened. "You're not real."
A soft laugh. "Then why do you look at me like I am?"
He stepped closer. The smell of him—cedar, static, the faint salt of old rain—filled the air. My chest constricted.I could see the tiniest distortions in him, flickers where his outline wavered, revealing threads of blue light running through the shape of his skin.
"I heard you," I whispered. "In the recordings. In the piano."
"I know. I followed the sound back."
He lifted his hand. It hovered inches from my face. The heat coming from him wasn't heat exactly—it was vibration, like standing too close to a speaker when the bass hits.
My instincts screamed to pull away, but love and terror share the same pulse. I leaned forward until my forehead met the ghost of his palm. The air shimmered. A high tone rang through the room, pure and unbearable.
When it faded, his fingers were solid against my skin.