Chapter Text
Ever since he was a child, Orpheus had dreamt of stairs.
Not every night–no, never so predictable as that, but often enough that he grew accustomed to the sensation of them. They always stretched impossibly long, spanning either upward into a light too bright to look at or downward, into a darkness so complete it felt solid. And he was always there, in the middle. Not climbing. Not falling. Simply suspended on a step that felt neither safe nor dangerous, but unfinished.
The air in those dreams was thin. Sound did not echo properly. When he tried to look up, the light shimmered and blurred,when he dared glance below, the darkness seemed to breathe, expanding just slightly as if aware of his attention. He would take a step, sometimes upward, sometimes down–but the distance never changed. The light remained unreachable. The darkness never swallowed him.
And the stairs were never alone.
They stood scattered across the edges of his vision. Dozens of them, perhaps hundreds, intersecting at impossible angles fading into horizons that should not exist. Some were broken midway. Some twisted into spirals that looped back on themselves. Others simply stopped, suspended in empty space.
He would try to reach them.
He would shift sideways, carefully stepping across the invisible gaps between staircases, convinced that if he could only reach another set, it might lead somewhere real. But the distance between them always stretched just a little farther than his stride allowed. His hand would brush air where the surface should have been.And no matter how long he moved, he remained in the middle.
When Orpheus turned ten, he stopped dreaming of stairs.
Instead, he began to dream of the manor.
At first, it was vague. Corridors without doors where there should've been, chandeliers floating in darkness, But over time the dream solidified. The manor gained weight, texture, memory. The floors creaked underfoot. The wallpaper peeled in long, curling strips. The scent of dust and something faintly metallic lingered in the air.
This time, it was no different.
He stood in the hall, the ceiling arching high above him, though the chandelier overhead did not glow. Moonlight filtered in from windows that should have illuminated the room–but tonight, even the light felt dimmed, as if filtered through water.
The mansion was quiet.
Unusually quiet.
Dust clung thickly to the corners of the walls as though no one had walked these halls for years. His footsteps made no sound. Even his breathing seemed swallowed before it could echo.
Yet Orpheus could not shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone.
It wasn’t the sharp sensation of being watched. It was subtler than that. A presence just beyond recognition, like standing at the edge of a crowd and knowing someone in it knows your name.
He wandered down the corridors, passing guest rooms with their doors left open. The darkness inside them was not empty. It felt occupied. The beds were neatly made, yet impressions dented the pillows as though someone had just risen. Curtains stirred without wind.
And once,only once–did he caught glimpses of figures at the far ends of the hallways.
silhouettes that moved when he did not, shapes that turned corners just as he reached them, as though the manor housed people who refused to meet him face to face.
For a moment he paused before one open door, fingers hovering over the frame. Inside, he could see the faint outline of a chair near the window, and the unmistakable impression that someone had been sitting there moments ago, watching him pass.
He stepped inside.
The air grew colder.
And just as he began to turn—
He awoke.
It was strange. This time, the manor was empty, but usually it wouldn't be. It was always the same beginning, in the manor, people would arrive and introduce themselves, sometimes the place shifted. Once, it became the forest near, other times the grounds near Sacred Hearts Hospital, or perhaps lonely park. Wherever they ended up, those strangers were always hunted and pursued by beings beyond normalcy. Sometimes they all survived. Other times, only one made it through.
The dreams unsettled him, yet they also sparked his imagination. Different people, different lives, drawn together by necessity, to fight for survival.
How far would someone go in order to survive?
That thrilling feeling fueled his creativity
But one had to wonder,
Are coherently continuous dreams even possible?
The first thing he saw as he opened his eyes was the faint outline of his ceiling fan. Its slow, hypnotic spin mirroring the blurred fragments of dreams still clinging to his mind.
He exhaled, running a trembling hand through his hair. The dream lingered like smoke.
There was no point trying to sleep again as he could see the sun was already rising, scattering lights through the curtains of his room. Orpheus reached for the notebook on his bedside table, the one already filled with scrawled fragments of his dream-world. He added a few more lines, half-legible words then shut the cover with a quiet thud.
Perhaps, in time, he would unravel this mystery. But not now.
Now, it was time for breakfast.
“Good morning, Orpheus.”
The voice belonged to one of the forest rangers who tended the estate, a trusted colleague of his parents and a guardian since his childhood.
“Morning, Mr. Perez.” Orpheus replied, settling into his chair.
The man laughed, his tone light against the heavy air of morning. “ come now, Orpheus! You must be hungry. I strictly remembered you skipped dinner last night.”
“I…yes–yes I did.,” Orpheus answered simply, taking a seat right in front of Bane.
On the table lay today’s breakfast: crispy bacon, a pair of golden scones, and hot steaming coffee. The clatter of cutlery and the smell of roasted beans felt almost too ordinary after nights of strange dreams.
He sipped his coffee, staring out the window toward the forest that bordered the estate. For the briefest moment, he thought he saw movement there. But, when he blinked, the forest was still.
“Rough night?” Bane asked, watching him with a sincere grin.
Orpheus hesitated. “…You could say that.”
“Breakfast today was delicious, did Mr.Alfred prepare it?”
Bane’s grin widened. “No, actually. It was Alice.”
Orpheus blinked. “Ah… Alice came to visit.”
Alice, His sister. Sharper and more determined than he could ever claim to be. She had insisted on living in the city, ambitiously chasing the world as a journalist while he remained tethered to this manor. For her, they had purchased a small apartment nestled in the city near. She loved the crowd and would simply never stand living in this lonely house, no matter how much Alice said the opposite.
familiar steps echoed down the corridor.
“Speak of the devil,” Bane chuckled as he went to the kitchen.
The door pushed open, and Alice appeared, her hair neatly tied back, a notebook tucked beneath one arm. The scent of flour and butter lingered about her, proof that she had indeed come here and meddled in the kitchen.
“Look who’s awake before noon,” she teased, sliding into the chair beside him without invitation.
He sighed but smiled faintly. “Good morning, Alice.”
Alice stopped her movement as she turned to look at him once more.
“Well you look half-dead,” she announced, eyeing him. “Please tell me you haven’t been writing until dawn again.”
“Not writing,” he said, standing to open the window. “I just didn't sleep well, I suppose.”
“Ah. You dreamed again? Was it the mysterious kind or the self-destructive kind?”
He smiled a genuine smile. “Does it matter?”
Alice made a face. “Perhaps it's the horror novels you write getting to your head.” She walked past him, surveying the living room beside, that for some reason had been cluttered with notes, ink stains, and half-written drafts. Her gaze softened for just a moment. “You need sunlight. Air. Maybe even people.”
“I have both,” Orpheus replied. “I just don’t like the noise they make.”
Alice rolled her eyes. “Good thing I came to fix that. Get dressed–we’re going to the city.”
He blinked, “Now?”
“Yes, now. There’s a performance today at the recital hall. Pianist, Frederick Kreiburg. You’ve heard of him?”
Orpheus hesitated. The name brushed against something in his memory, though he couldn’t place where. “Perhaps.”
“Then it’s settled. Come on! come with me. You can thank me later for saving you from your brooding.”
________
By afternoon, the manor’s fog had lifted enough to reveal the distant rail lines cutting through the fields. Alice walked beside him toward the train station, notebook in hand, already dictating headlines to herself.
“I heard the from my friend in France that the people had seen famous violinist Mr. Antonio Paganini, out gambling again. Perhaps he's filling a hole his lover, Andrea left for him.”
She hummed as if thinking about something.
“You ever wonder,” she mused, “why artists are always miserable?”
Orpheus glanced sidelong. “You’re a journalist.”
“Exactly. We’re like cousins in despair.” She smirked. “At least my work ends up on a page, not in nightmares.” He said nothing. Her lightness always had a way of peeling back the shadows, if only for a moment.
The city came into view as dusk fell. A sprawl of cobblestone and lamplight, where the air smelled faintly of rain. Orpheus looked up at a nearby list of performers.
★⡀.•☆•.꧁•⊹٭FREDERICK KREIBURG٭⊹•꧂★⡀.•☆•.★
“Ah this is the one! Let's go orphy.”
Alice grabbed Orpheus's hand, dragging him through the crowd.
Inside, the seats filled fast. Orpheus and Alice found their place near the front, the hush of expectation folding over the crowd like velvet.
When Frederick entered the stage, Orpheus felt his chest tighten.
He recognized him.
Not from the posters outside that he ignored,
But from the dream.
Frederick moved with the grace of someone shaped entirely by rhythm. Even in silence, he carried music around him like a second skin. His hands hovered over the keys, and the first note struck–a low, resonant chord that seemed to come from somewhere beyond the piano itself.
Orpheus’s breath caught.
The melody was so familiar.
Images from his dream began to stir. He tried to dismiss it, to focus on the man before him, but the music was relentless. It crawled through his thoughts, echoing patterns he didn’t remember teaching himself to recognize.
Beside him, Alice was transfixed. “What a haunting melody.” she whispered. “You’d think the instrument was breathing through him.”
Orpheus didn’t answer. His gaze had locked with Frederick’s.
The pianist’s eyes lifted briefly from the keys, meeting Orpheus’s across the dim auditorium and for the briefest moment, the performance faltered.
Just one misplaced note. Barely audible.
But Orpheus saw it,
the flicker of recognition.
Frederick composed himself instantly, resuming with renewed fervor. Yet something had changed in his posture–his movements tighter, his face drawn.
When the last note faded, the applause surged.
But Orpheus hardly heard it.
He remained still, long after the curtains had closed.
“Orpheus? You’re a million miles away.”
Alice’s voice broke through the haze as they exited the theater into the cool evening. She looked at the streetlamps that hummed faintly as she tucked her notebook under her arm. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“...Perhaps I have,” he murmured, looking at her.
“Good,” she said lightly. “Maybe it’ll make a better story for me.”
They laughed softly together. The air was cool and damp, filled with the chatter of departing guests.
“Come on,” Alice said, “ I need to get back to the office before my editor loses his mind.”
Orpheus nodded. “You should rest more.”
“And let someone else steal my front-page stories? Never.”
She grinned, though her eyes softened. “Write to me, alright? Don’t disappear into your dreams again.”
“I won’t,” he said.
She gave him a mock salute and turned down the lamplit street toward her building, vanishing into the crowd.
The journey home felt longer than usual. The rhythmic clatter of the train lulled the city’s noise into a distant hum. Orpheus leaned against the window, watching his reflection in the glass.
The face staring back looked tired. Pale. Almost…unfamiliar.
He thought again of Frederick Kreiburg. The poised elegance, the flicker of fear behind the composure. That same look had haunted Orpheus’s dreams, only this time, the dream had looked back.
The manor stood quiet when he returned, the night heavy with mist. He reached the gate, hesitating only when he saw the object resting in the mailbox.
A letter.
Unmarked. A seal, But no return name.
The seal was a very familiar symbol.
The muse. A symbol Alice's father had created.
The envelope was thick, its paper rough beneath his fingers. He carried it into the study, brought the door to a closed shut, before setting it under the lamplight before carefully opening it.
Inside was a single neatly folded sheet with a single sentence gracing the yellow-ish paper.
“It's time to play the opening act, my dear bard.”
Orpheus read it twice.
Three times.
Then again, slower, as though each repetition might reveal a hidden layer.
The clock ticked behind him, heavy and patient as he sat there for a long time, tracing the ink with his thumb, feeling the pulse of something shift beneath the stillness of the room. For a moment it felt like he wasn't in his study anymore.
When he finally rose, the fog outside had thickened again.
It pressed against the window, obscuring the trees beyond, until the manor felt adrift.
In the city, meanwhile, Frederick Kreiburg sat alone in his dressing room, the applause from earlier still echoing faintly through the walls.
He removed his gloves, staring down at his hands as though they belonged to someone else.
That face.
The man in the audience.
He had seen him before, he was sure of it.
But where?
A faint shiver ran through him as he remembered a dimly lit hall, the smell of candle wax, and a figure with the same eyes, the same quiet tension, standing over a piano.
He shook his head, pressing his palms to his eyes until color burst behind them.
It was just the exhaustion, he told himself.
Still, when he packed his music sheets into his case, his face stilled.
“A letter…when did it get here?”
Back in the manor, Orpheus placed the letter on his desk, beside his notebook and the lamplight that swayed gently. He opened the window. The fog rolled in, cool and wet. Somewhere deep in the forest, he thought he heard the faint sound of a piano key being struck–soft, deliberate, like an echo returning home.
Orpheus closed his eyes.
For the first time that night, he didn’t know whether he was still awake.