The first thing everyone noticed was that silence had become suspicious.
Not loud silence. Not dramatic silence. Just the kind that lingered a second too long, like someone waiting to interrupt. Conversations ended awkwardly. Footsteps echoed longer than they should have. Even breathing felt like it was being monitored.
A man standing near the square stopped mid-sentence.
"I was saying—" he began.
Then nothing followed.
He waited.
Others waited with him.
After a full ten seconds, he frowned. "Never mind. It probably wasn't important."
Somewhere beneath the street, something vibrated in mild disagreement.
Tung Tung Sahur stood exactly where he had been left the night before. Or perhaps he had moved and returned. No one could prove either version. A woman who had been watching him all night claimed he hadn't blinked once. Another swore he blinked constantly, just very slowly.
Both felt confident.
The authorities were still present, though less organized than they had been earlier. One of them was arguing with a lamppost.
"You can't just hum like that," the official said sternly.
The lamppost hummed louder.
"I'll write you up," the official threatened.
The lamppost flickered in what could only be described as sarcasm.
Nearby, two citizens were engaged in a heated discussion.
"This is clearly a sound issue," said the first.
"No, it's a time issue," said the second.
"Then why is my spoon vibrating?"
"That's unrelated."
The spoon vibrated harder, offended by the dismissal.
That was when the first note repeated.
It was a soft sound. A plucked string. Pleasant, even. The kind of sound that would normally indicate the start of something harmless.
Then it happened again.
The same note. Identical. Perfectly repeated, without variation.
People froze.
"That's not right," someone whispered.
Music, as everyone knew, was allowed to repeat—but never exactly. There was always a mistake, a breath, a flaw. This note had none.
Then the voice followed.
"Tra—la—le—ro—"
"Oh no," said several people at once.
Tralalero stood atop the fountain again. No one had seen him climb it. He was simply there now, strumming his lute with alarming enthusiasm. His smile was wide, confident, and deeply unhelpful.
"I swear," he said cheerfully, between notes, "I was trying to stop."
"Then stop!" someone yelled.
"I did!" Tralalero replied. "But the song disagreed."
He struck the same note again.
The ground rippled.
Not dramatically. Just enough to feel rude.
Bricks shifted uncomfortably. A shop sign twisted itself into a word that wasn't real and then apologized. A dog barked, then stopped mid-bark, as if reconsidering its life choices.
Tung Tung Sahur looked at Tralalero.
This time, Tralalero definitely missed a note.
The air folded slightly to the left.
"That's new," Tralalero muttered. "Usually it goes right."
An official ran forward, waving a clipboard.
"You there!" he shouted. "Cease that immediately!"
"I can't," Tralalero said honestly. "It's the second verse."
"What happens if you finish the song?"
Tralalero considered this. "Usually? Things calm down."
"And today?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "The rhythm feels… persistent."
Behind them, the vibration grew stronger.
People began noticing it now—not as a sound, but as a sensation. The kind that started in the bones and worked outward. Cups rattled. Teeth clicked together rhythmically. Someone's hat fell off and refused to be picked up.
"What is that?" a woman asked.
No one answered.
Patapim was already there.
He always was.
The vibration synchronized with Tralalero's music. Each note caused a pulse. Each pulse caused something small to go wrong. A door led to the wrong room. A sentence ended in the wrong emotion. A man blinked and forgot his cousin's name but remembered his cousin's shoe size perfectly.
Tung Tung Sahur shifted his weight.
This caused three pigeons to age visibly and one to apply for a job.
Tralalero finished the chorus.
Silence fell.
Exactly seven seconds passed.
Tralalero inhaled sharply.
"Oh no," he whispered.
And then the sound began again—slightly louder, slightly faster, and absolutely certain it would not stop on its own.
The immediate response to the sound restarting was panic—but not the efficient kind.
It was the kind of panic where everyone spoke at once, all plans contradicted each other, and nobody actually moved.
"Cover your ears!" someone shouted.
"That won't help," someone else replied. "It's vibrating internally."
"Internally where?"
"Everywhere."
A man crouched behind a barrel for protection. The barrel hummed in sync with the music and scooted slightly closer to Tralalero.
"This is a hostile object," the man hissed, pushing it away.
The barrel scooted back.
Across the square, a group of officials attempted to establish order by standing in a straight line. This was difficult, because the ground was now very gently slanted.
"Stay in formation," barked the first official.
"I am in formation," said the second. "The formation moved."
"That's impossible."
The formation agreed.
Tralalero continued playing.
"I swear," he said between verses, "this has never gone on this long before."
"STOP TESTING IT," someone screamed.
"I'm not testing!" Tralalero protested. "I'm surviving!"
Every time he hit a higher note, something nearby reacted emotionally. A mailbox rattled angrily. A door slammed itself out of spite. A window cracked and then looked embarrassed about it.
Tung Tung Sahur remained motionless.
This was noticed.
"That one isn't helping," a woman said, pointing at him.
"He never helps," replied another. "That's his thing."
"Then why is he here?"
No one answered.
Patapim's presence intensified. The vibration grew rhythmic now, less like noise and more like a pulse. People began unconsciously matching it—tapping feet, nodding heads, clenching jaws in time.
A man stopped walking mid-step.
"I think my legs are buffering," he said calmly.
Behind him, two citizens were arguing loudly.
"This is obviously the bard's fault," said the first.
"No," said the second. "This started before the music."
"So what? He made it worse."
"That's not a crime."
"It should be."
They turned toward an official.
"Is making things worse illegal?" the first asked.
The official hesitated. "Not officially."
"Can we make it official?"
"Not on the spot."
The ground pulsed harder.
A bell rang somewhere without being rung.
Tralalero struck a sharp note and flinched.
"Oh. That's new."
"What?" several people asked at once.
"The echo came back early."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the sound is remembering itself."
Nobody liked that explanation.
A woman tried to pray. Her words came out backwards, apologized, and refused to continue. A man attempted to shout over the music and accidentally harmonized.
Tung Tung Sahur shifted his stance.
A nearby cart aged ten years and developed joint pain.
"Hey!" the cart owner protested. "I just fixed the wheel!"
The wheel sighed.
The officials finally reached a decision.
"We need to isolate the problem," declared the first.
"Yes," agreed the second. "Remove the source."
They all turned toward Tralalero.
Tralalero froze mid-strum. "I don't recommend that."
"Why not?"
"Because when I stop suddenly, the song doesn't."
"That doesn't make sense."
"I know," Tralalero said nervously. "It's been happening a lot today."
A fourth official, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat.
"What if," he suggested, "we remove the other one?"
Everyone turned.
Tung Tung Sahur looked back.
The official swallowed.
"I didn't mean— I mean— hypothetically."
A low vibration rolled through the square.
Patapim's rhythm deepened, slower now, heavier. Cracks formed in the air itself—thin, barely visible distortions like reality squinting.
Someone screamed.
Someone else told them to stop screaming because it was "making the sound feel competitive."
A group of citizens formed a committee spontaneously.
"We should talk this out," said the committee leader, who had appointed himself.
"Talk over that?" someone shouted.
"Yes," the leader insisted. "That's how solutions happen."
They began arguing immediately about what the problem actually was.
"Sound."
"Time."
"Wooden man."
"Definitely the lute."
"No, it's the vibration."
"Which vibration?"
"The rude one."
Tung Tung Sahur watched them.
He lifted his bat slightly.
Everyone froze.
He lowered it again.
Nothing happened.
The tension released awkwardly, like a held breath that didn't feel justified anymore.
Tralalero hit the final note of the verse.
The ground bucked.
A shop sign fell, missed everyone, and shattered in a way that spelled nothing.
Silence followed.
Five seconds.
Six.
Seven.
Tralalero inhaled.
"No," several people said in unison.
Too late.
The next verse began—faster, louder, layered with a deep underlying pulse that no instrument was producing.
Patapim was no longer subtle.
The vibration surged upward, rattling teeth, loosening thoughts. People staggered. Words came out wrong. A man tried to shout "Run" and instead said "Appointment."
Tung Tung Sahur finally stepped forward.
The ground steadied beneath his foot.
Just slightly.
Everyone noticed.
The music wavered.
Patapim's rhythm skipped.
For the first time since the night refused to end, something hesitated.
The crowd stared at Tung Tung Sahur.
He did nothing else.
The chaos resumed, offended by the interruption.
Once it became clear that doing nothing was no longer an option, the town decided to do everything at once.
This did not help.
Someone rang a bell to signal an emergency meeting. The bell rang back, offended at being used incorrectly. Another bell joined in out of solidarity. Soon, several bells were ringing for reasons none of them could explain.
"Order!" shouted an official, standing on a crate that vibrated violently beneath him. "We must establish control!"
"Over what?" someone yelled.
"Something!" the official replied. "Anything!"
The crate slid sideways.
The official slid with it, maintaining eye contact with the crowd the entire time, as if dignity might be contagious.
Tralalero's song had reached a troubling phase. It no longer sounded like music. It sounded like a memory of music being argued over. Notes overlapped. Rhythm folded in on itself. At one point, the song tried to repeat and failed, causing a sharp lurch in the air.
People staggered.
A man clutched his head. "I can hear colors."
"That's normal now," said a woman beside him. "Just don't describe them."
Patapim's vibration had spread everywhere. It was no longer just a pulse—it was a presence. The ground throbbed. Walls breathed slightly. Objects that had never agreed on anything were now resonating together.
A chair scooted closer to a table.
"I don't like this," the table whispered.
Across the square, two citizens attempted to leave.
They walked in a straight line and arrived back where they started.
They tried again, faster.
Same result.
One of them nodded thoughtfully. "All right. So that's happening."
Tung Tung Sahur stood at the center of it all, exactly where escalation seemed to prefer him. The bat in his hand hummed faintly now, responding to Patapim's rhythm. The sound was uncomfortable, like two things recognizing each other without wanting to talk about it.
An official noticed.
"That's it," he said, pointing. "That thing is reacting to the sound."
Another official squinted. "Or the sound is reacting to the thing."
A third official shrugged. "Or they're both reacting to us."
This possibility was ignored immediately.
"We need to separate them," the first official declared.
"Separate who?"
"Yes."
Before anyone could object, two officials rushed forward and grabbed Tung Tung Sahur's arms.
The moment they touched him, the vibration stopped.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
Silence slammed into the square so hard it felt physical.
Everyone froze.
The music cut off mid-note, leaving Tralalero gasping as if the song had yanked the air out of him. Patapim's pulse vanished, leaving behind an uncomfortable emptiness—like a room after a loud argument.
The officials holding Tung Tung Sahur relaxed.
"It worked," one of them said.
The world leaned forward.
Then the silence screamed.
Not audibly—emotionally.
The ground cracked.
The vibration returned tenfold, violent and uneven, as if offended by the attempt. One of the officials was thrown backward, landing in a pile of hats that had previously belonged to no one.
"DON'T TOUCH HIM," several people shouted, far too late.
Tung Tung Sahur stepped forward on his own.
The vibration faltered again, confused now.
Tralalero dropped to one knee, clutching his lute. "I— I didn't even start the bridge!"
Patapim surged, the pulse stuttering wildly. Reality buckled. The air split with hairline fractures that glowed faintly, like embarrassed mistakes.
A man pointed at the sky. "Is it supposed to do that?"
The sky flickered.
A clock tower chimed uncertainly.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped, as if reconsidering.
The crowd backed away instinctively, forming a loose circle around Tung Tung Sahur. Nobody told them to do this. It just felt correct, like standing back from something that might begin explaining itself.
An official cleared his throat. "Sir," he said carefully, "we believe you may be… involved."
Tung Tung Sahur looked at him.
He looked at Tralalero.
He looked at the ground, still trembling beneath Patapim's influence.
Then he spoke.
Just once.
"Again."
The word landed heavily.
The sound repeated.
Not Tralalero's song.
Not Patapim's pulse.
Something deeper.
A low resonance rolled through the town, syncing everything unwillingly. Windows shattered upward. Doors unhinged themselves politely. Thoughts slipped out of sequence.
The sky darkened further.
Somewhere far above, something shifted—as if a mechanism had noticed interference and was deciding whether to care.
People screamed.
People laughed.
People argued about which reaction was appropriate.
Tralalero stared at Tung Tung Sahur in awe. "You can do that?"
Tung Tung Sahur did not answer.
The vibration reached a peak.
Then—
Stopped.
Everything froze.
The night held its breath.
For one impossible second, nothing moved, sounded, or existed incorrectly.
Then the clocks across the town rang out together.
Once.
Twice.
Twenty-five times.
The sound echoed endlessly, overlapping itself, each chime slightly delayed, slightly wrong.
The Sahur Cycle did not reset.
But it noticed.
Somewhere, very far away, morning hesitated.
And for the first time since the night refused to end, the world understood one thing clearly:
This was no longer a simple problem.
And it was definitely not finished.