The barn was hardly fit for beasts, let alone lost boys with secrets stitched into their bones. Gaps in the walls let dawn steal through in wan ribbons, painting the dust gold and ghostly. He woke tangled in sour straw, cold enough that his fingers ached and his breath came in tiny puffs of fog.
For a long moment, he just listened. A chorus of market calls, children's shouts, laughter, and argument drifted from beyond the crooked walls. And there, pressed close to his racing heart, the two strange bottles and the letter felt heavier than before. Not a dream. Not a story.
He sat up, drew his knees tight, and looked at the bottles. The "Essence of Music" swirled with silent color; the other, metal-dark, glowered back. A gust of wind set the barn creaking.
His stomach twisted. He pinched off a bite of yesterday's crumb of bread, chewed, and grimaced: "Ugh," he muttered. "Like chewing old boots." His own voice startled him higher, uncertain. Not the man from before; not quite the boy in the puddle, either.
Outside, feet slapped puddles, merchants barked for coin, and somewhere, someone sang off-key. The ache of hunger jabbed him back to purpose.
He stared at the Essence. Memories flitted and dodged, melody lines from car radios and humming kitchens, his mother humming lullabies. "What's the worst that can happen?" he whispered, and before his courage could leave, he popped the cork.
The taste was unplaceable like memory mixed with thunder, sweet and sharp, fading instantly. He blinked and the barn filled with… listening. Every creak and distant cry braided together: rhythm in the rafters, harmonies in his own heartbeat, as if music itself had been lurking all along and only now slipped into the open.
He closed his eyes, letting out a single trembling note. Light shimmered in corners; air grew still. The sound lingered, spun wider, softer, lacing itself through the morning calm.
Then, the other vial. The "super soldier serum." He almost laughed ridiculous, but death by hunger struck him as worse than risk. "Bottoms up," he said, wry and shaky, and swallowed.
A shock like ice-fire, a lurch of dizziness. His body tensed everywhere muscles waking, vision sharpening, aches vanishing. The world focused: each sound, each scent, each color sprang alive. He flexed a hand in awe. Strong. Present. Here.
The market waited beyond the barn. He stood, bracing himself, patted his pockets, and stepped outside.
Mud sucked at his feet; morning air bit at his face. He trailed the rising beat of voices, pulse keeping perfect time with every step.
He chose a spot by the square's edge, a sliver of light near a fishmonger's stall. He watched people gruff men, world-weary women, children with sharp eyes all weathered as bark. They glanced at him sidelong, white hair flashing in the sun, green eyes catching every bit of light.
He cleared his throat. A new voice nudged at his mind, uncertain but bold.
Sing
So he did
The melody started as a whisper. Then, with each line, strength grew a lullaby rising like dawn. The market bent around the sound: words slowed, quarrels hushed. A fishwife paused mid-sale, gaze softening. A young girl's jaw slackened, clutching her rag doll. No magic shows just music, raw as longing, gentle as sunlight.
A few children broke off their game, circling closer. One nudged his friend and marveled, "How d'you do that? It's like the world's listening."
He smiled, unsure. "It isn't me, I think," he said quietly, nerves crisp but soothed by the melody pulsing in his veins. "It's the song."
A butcher wiped his hands and tossed a copper at his feet. "That's a tune and a half, lad. Where's your master taught you?"
He shook his head. "No master. Just hungry, I guess."
"You sing like a bard's son," an old woman croaked, squinting at his hair. "Or a ghost
come walking." She pressed a heel of bread into his palm and winked.
"Don't let the septon's wife catch you, though—she hates boys with pretty voices."
The crowd grew thicker, voices tangling in gentle laughter. He caught snippets admiring, suspicious, awed.
A boy, older and armored in a jerkin several sizes too large, stalked over. "My da says you're a visitor. Not from here." He jerked his chin, eyes lingering just a moment on the white hair, on the vivid green gaze. "You got a name, songbird?"
His mind teetered old life, new world. He chose: "Miles," he said, soft but steady.
"Alright, Miles," the boy said, and a smile flickered in his eyes. "If anybody gives trouble, just sing at them." He winked, then melted into the market's press.
He smiled truly smiled for the first time since waking in this strange world.
Later, tucked away with bread, cheese, and the clink of unexpected coins, Miles replayed the morning's moments. He hummed in the dusk, feeling the essence glowing quietly inside him, twin gifts singing in his blood. For now, music and strength were enough. For now, hope was warm and sharp as the new morning's chorus.
From alley shadows, a girl's dirty face edged into view. "That was… good," she mumbled, uncertain of kindness in this world. "Sing at the inn tonight. People remember songs, even more than names. They might offer some money to you".
He nodded, heart fluttering, and watched her vanish into the warren of streets. Alone, as stars kindled overhead, Miles wondered what other songs awaited. He drew his knees in, whispered into the darkness, "Thanks...for another day."
The world outside turned, brittle and bright and brimming with stories yet unsung.