There used to be this elderly woman in my neighborhood.
Always coughing, begging for food or money for meds.
Everyone avoided her, scared they’d catch something. I felt bad, so I’d bring her food or slip her some cash now and then.
One day, she passed away. Out of the blue, a distant relative of her called me, asking to come by her apartment. I figured they needed help sorting stuff out.
When I walked in, I just froze…

The apartment doesn’t match the person I knew. It’s dimly lit, but every surface gleams like someone cleaned it every day with devotion. Ornate rugs cover the worn-out wood floor, and delicate porcelain figurines line the shelves. On the walls hang oil paintings in gilded frames—peaceful landscapes, a few somber portraits, and one painting of a young girl clutching a violin, her eyes hauntingly familiar. The air carries a faint scent of lavender and old books, not mildew or sickness.

“Sorry for the mess,” the relative says, though there’s not a thing out of place. “She didn’t have many visitors, but she always kept the place… ready.”

I barely hear her. My eyes are locked on the painting of the girl. That face—it’s hers. Not old and shriveled like I remember, but bright and full of life. I step closer, reading the tiny plaque beneath it: Elena Petrescu, age 16 — Prodigy.

“Who is this?” I ask, though the answer is already forming in my gut.

“That’s her. Back when she was famous.”

Famous? The coughing beggar woman? I look again. There’s no mistaking it. The cheekbones, the arch of the brows, even the stubborn curl in her hair. It’s her. Just… before life wore her down.

“She was a violinist?” I ask.

“More than that. She was one of the best. Played with orchestras across Europe. There are recordings—old vinyls somewhere in the back room.”

“But how did she end up like… that?”

The relative shrugs, avoiding my eyes. “She disappeared for a while. Mental health stuff. Then the war. Then a bad marriage. Drugs. Who knows. I only met her once, when I was little. She gave me this weird crystal and told me to keep it safe.”

She pulls a small pendant from her bag—an amethyst wrapped in tarnished silver. “Want it? She said it should go to someone who looked after her.”

I hesitate, but nod. She places it in my hand. The moment it touches my skin, I feel a strange pulse—like a soft buzz in my palm. Goosebumps race up my arms.

“She said if you ever needed help, it would know,” the relative mutters, already walking toward the door. “Anyway, thanks for coming. I just needed someone to see it. To remember her, I guess.”

I stay behind, wandering through the apartment. I open drawers filled with handwritten sheet music, letters in Romanian, and newspaper clippings yellowed with age. One headline reads: “Child Violinist Disappears Before World Tour”. Another: “Elena Petrescu Found in Psychiatric Hospital After Six Years”. The dates are from decades ago.

In the closet, I find a violin case. My heart pounds as I open it. Inside is a beautiful, worn instrument, the wood darkened by years of use. I lift it gently, surprised by how natural it feels in my hands. I’m no musician, but something draws me to it.

When I place it under my chin and drag the bow across the strings, a single clear note echoes through the apartment. It’s as if the walls themselves sigh in recognition.

The pendant around my neck warms. The paintings seem to shimmer. I swear, for a second, the girl in the portrait smiles.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

I set the violin down and open it to find an older man in a charcoal coat, eyes sharp and probing. He holds a cane with a silver wolf’s head. “I’m looking for Elena,” he says.

“She passed away last week.”

His expression doesn’t change. “I see. May I come in?”

I don’t know why I step aside, but I do. He walks straight to the violin, picks it up without asking, and plays a slow, aching melody that makes my eyes sting.

“You knew her,” I say.

“We all did,” he replies. “Those of us who remember what she really was.”

“What do you mean?”

He lowers the violin. “She wasn’t just a musician. She was… a guardian. A keeper of something older than music. That pendant—you’ve accepted it, haven’t you?”

I instinctively touch the amethyst. “She gave it to her niece. It ended up with me.”

“Then it chose you.”

“Chose me for what?”

He looks around the room, then back at me. “To finish what she started.”

Before I can speak, he reaches into his coat and pulls out a small leather-bound book. He places it on the table and opens to the first page. Symbols fill the parchment—elegant, ancient script interwoven with musical notations. “This is the Codex Harmonia. It contains compositions that heal, that protect, even… awaken.”

“Awaken what?”

“The old things. The things she kept asleep.”

My mouth goes dry. “You’re saying… she used music like magic?”

“Not like magic,” he corrects. “It is magic.”

I step back. “This is insane.”

He doesn’t argue. Just watches me with patient eyes. “You already feel it. The pendant hums. The violin calls. You played one note, and the walls remembered.”

I shake my head, trying to stay grounded. “Why me?”

“Because you saw her. When no one else did. Because you fed her when she was hungry, gave when you had little. That matters, more than you know.”

I stare at the violin again. The apartment is silent, but the air feels charged, like the moment before a storm.

He walks to the door. “When you’re ready, open the book. Play the second piece. But be warned—once you begin, the music will stir things best left forgotten.”

With that, he’s gone.

For hours, I sit at her small table, staring at the Codex. The pages feel alive, humming faintly under my fingertips. I light a candle, more for comfort than light, and turn to the second composition.

The notes are strange—impossible fingerings, rhythms that make no sense. Yet my fingers twitch, eager. I lift the violin.

The first note resonates like a bell through my bones. The second sends a ripple through the air. Shadows in the corners of the room shift.

I keep playing.

The room darkens, not from the absence of light, but the presence of something else. A murmur rises from the walls—a whisper in a language I don’t know but feel deep in my chest.

Then, something answers.

From beneath the floorboards, a low moan. The candle flickers violently. The pendant glows, casting violet light across the sheet music. I play faster, the melody guiding me now. I don’t know how I’m doing it, but I can’t stop. I mustn’t stop.

A shriek pierces the room, and suddenly I see her—Elena. Not as she was, but as she is now, standing in the doorway, translucent and shimmering.

Her eyes meet mine. She nods.

A crack splits the floor. From it, something dark rises—twisted, hissing, formless. But the music wraps around it like chains. Elena steps forward, raising her hand.

“Finish it,” she says.

I pour everything I have into the final phrase, bow flying, strings crying. The pendant burns against my chest. The creature howls—then implodes into a burst of ash and shadow.

Silence.

The candle steadies. The air clears. Elena smiles one last time before vanishing in a swirl of violet light.

I collapse, breathless. The violin rests beside me, quiet now.

The Codex closes on its own.

Outside, dawn creeps in through the curtains. Birds begin to sing. For the first time in days, I feel peace.

I leave the apartment with the pendant around my neck and the Codex under my arm.

She’s gone, but not forgotten.

And now, the music lives in me.