Elias didn’t sleep that night.

He tried.

Laid down. Stared at the ceiling. Counted cracks in the plaster. Listened to the faint hum of the city outside his window, the muffled laughter of strangers, the distant honk of a car that never stopped.

But his mind wouldn’t shut up.

Not about the music.

Not about the crowd’s reaction.

Not about the way his own fingers had moved over the strings like they were answering a call he didn’t remember making.

And definitely not about that name.

Valen.

It meant nothing.

And yet, it had clung to him all night, lodging itself in the cracks of his brain like a song he couldn’t forget.

He could feel it sitting there, waiting.

Like something just beneath the surface.

He hated that feeling.

The feeling of something just out of reach.

It made his skin itch.

Elias sat up with a frustrated groan, rubbing his hands down his face. He was being ridiculous.

This wasn’t a mystery. It was luck.

A good gig. A good night. A reminder that he wasn’t some washed-up nobody.

And now, instead of enjoying it, he was spiraling over some old legend that didn’t mean anything.

He needed to let it go.

He needed to move on.

But some part of him knew—

He wouldn’t.

—

Morning hit too soon.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Elias found himself at a café near the venue, where usually musician gather to discuss and relax, he ordered something strong enough to keep his brain from melting out of his skull, and sat near the window.

The coffee was hot, but it didn’t wake him up.

His mind was still stuck on last night.

The way the crowd had looked at him. The way their cheers had felt bigger than the room, bigger than him.

For the first time in years, he’d felt important.

It had been so easy to believe it was real.

But real things didn’t happen that easily.

And when things were too good, Elias had learned to question them.

At the counter, an old man was stirring his coffee, chatting with another patron. His voice was scratchy, weathered with time.

Elias wasn’t listening—not at first.

But then he heard it.

A name.

"You ever hear of Valen?"

Elias tensed.

The other man, a little younger—probably in his sixties—huffed a laugh. "Now that’s a name I haven’t thought about in years."

"You ever see him play?"

The older man scoffed. "Everyone who was around back then saw Valen play. You didn’t forget it."

Elias forced himself to take a sip of coffee, trying to act casual, but his pulse had picked up.

"You don’t get it," the younger guy said, shaking his head. "People don’t talk about Valen because he was just ‘good.’ They talk about him like he was something else entirely."

The old man leaned forward slightly. "Because he was."

The younger guy chuckled. "Come on, man. Every old-timer I’ve talked to makes it sound like Valen could do things that weren’t possible."

"That’s because he could." The old man’s voice had dropped lower. "I don’t expect you to believe me, kid. But I saw him play once. Just once. And I still remember it like it happened yesterday."

Elias swallowed hard, his grip tightening around his coffee cup.

The café felt smaller now.

"What was it like?" The younger guy’s voice was laced with curiosity, but there was a slight edge of disbelief.

The old man exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw as if pulling up the memory from somewhere deep. "It was like… watching something not meant for this world. Like he wasn’t playing music, he was channeling it. Like the air itself carried his sound, like the notes didn’t come from the guitar but from something deeper. You didn’t just hear him play. You felt it."

Elias’ chest tightened.

That was exactly how he had felt last night.

Like the music was moving through him, not from him.

The old man continued, eyes far away now. "People said Valen didn’t just play music. They said he could make you hear things you weren’t supposed to hear. Like he could pull something out of you, something buried so deep you forgot it was ever there."

The younger man shook his head, skeptical. "That’s just myth-building. People love to exaggerate."

The old man finally looked at him again. "Maybe. But tell me this—if he was just another musician, why did he disappear without a trace? No retirement, no death announcement, no nothing? One day, he was the biggest thing people whispered about. The next, it was like he never existed."

Elias' stomach knotted.

Not in panic.

Not in fear.

Something worse.

Recognition.

Because he knew that feeling.

The desperate need to pour yourself into the music before something took it away.

The need to prove—not to the audience, but to yourself—that you could still be heard.

His throat felt dry.

The older man took a slow sip of coffee. "Funny thing about Valen, though. One day, he just… stopped. Nobody ever saw him again. No farewell. No retirement. He just vanished."

Elias could hear his own heartbeat now.

The younger guy shrugged. "Maybe he got tired of playing."

The old man chuckled. "No musician plays like that and just stops. That ain’t how it works."

The younger guy rolled his eyes. "You make it sound like some big mystery."

"It is a mystery," the old man said simply.

Then his gaze flicked toward Elias—just for a second.

Elias looked away.

His hands were cold.

The coffee wasn’t helping.

He needed to leave.

He shoved back from the table, grabbed his guitar, and stepped outside.

The city was the same as it always was. Fast-moving. Uncaring. Loud.

But Elias' pulse was offbeat.

Something was wrong.

Something was pushing at the edges of his thoughts, trying to fit together.

He didn’t want to chase it.

But he was already following.

—

Later, Elias found himself running.

He didn’t know where he was going.

But he knew where he’d end up.

The alley.

The one where the Pawn Shop had been.

Where he had made a deal he could barely remember.

Where he had traded something away.

His pulse hammered in his ears.

By the time he reached the spot, he was breathless, heart pounding.

He turned the corner.

And—

Nothing.

Just the same cracked pavement. The same flickering streetlamp.

No door.

No sign.

No proof that anything had ever been there at all.

Elias exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair.

Maybe he was losing it.

Maybe he had always been losing it.

Behind him, in the shadows of the alley, someone was watching.

A businessman?? a pawn shop owner?? Valen???

Whatever he was or is doesn't matter

All that did was that Elias was right where he needed to be.

Like he said the best deals were never forced.

They were led.

And Elias was already following.