I confess, maybe my star doesn’t shine as brightly as it used to, but at my height I was one of Germany’s most famed pianists.
Hmm, could that river have washed you so far along you ended up crossing countries?” You see, I’m something of a talent scout, so it’s my business to know who’s who. The stranger then quirked an eyebrow at you and said, “Sorry, but I’m afraid I’ve never seen you before today. Although, er, not to brag or anything, but someone like me probably doesn’t need an introduction…” “N-No, I saw my reflection, it’s just…” you muttered, then breathed deep and said, “Sorry, I still haven’t introduced myself in turn. “Oh no, I haven’t come across a vampire, have I?” the stranger joked, well, you hoped he joked. You nearly fell back upon looking at yourself when you saw your appearance had somehow been wound back to your early twenties.Īs you gasped for breath, you could only think, I’m still in a dream, still in a dream, still in a dream… “But of course,” the stranger smiled at you and shortly fetched a hand mirror. “Well, it’s… hard to explain,” you told him, “Could I request a mirror, I’m not, er, quite feeling myself?” “You seem shocked, is something the matter?” he asked. The hands you had back then, as being a lifelong pianist, noting details like that was natural for you. Not that this predicament was any less strange, for as you looked down at your hands, you gasped to see they were not the hands of a middle-aged woman, but those of a girl having just reached adulthood. You caught your breath and thought, Maybe I overreacted, this doesn’t look like a kidnapping or anything of the sort. I brought you back home as quickly as I could, and I’m relieved to see you’re recovering so soon.” and I found you unconscious, washed up on the banks of the Flow.
“Ah, I do apologise,” he said, extending a hand, “My name is. Looking down at the stranger, you rasped at him, “Who are you? Where have you taken me?!” You shrieked and bolted upright, only to hear that the voice coming out of you didn’t sound like your own, at least, didn’t sound like how you sounded these days. Turning your head to your left, you came face-to-face with a silver-haired young man with a ponytail and clad in a light-blue jacket with an ascot, who smiled and greeted you with, “Ah, good to see you’re awake.” At least this room looked normal enough, also having a desk, typewriter, clumps of books and notes scattered around, and… a corkboard with several daguerreotypes pinned on. Yet any promise that this’d be another day of piano, children, and not being allowed to see your husband was upended when you saw that you hadn’t woken up in your bed, room, or anywhere familiar to you. Your husband’s talk of visions from worlds beyond had been plaguing your own mind so much as of late, so it was natural they’d start showing up in your dreams. You then jolted awake, or so you assumed. Burning angels gathered in a choir, a demonic horde making an infernal racket, and the ghosts of composers gone from you, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Chopin, Beethoven, circling around as you fell further down a swirling vortex of notes… In your dreams, you swore for a moment you were seeing the exact same visions Robert was.
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