Earth-1, 2026
James was a nerd.
Not the loud, opinionated kind that argued online or corrected teachers mid-sentence, but the quiet kind, the kind who kept his head down and his headphones on. A music nerd, specifically. Music was his thing. His escape. His proof that the world was bigger than the cracked sidewalks and boarded-up buildings of his city.
On Spotify, James mattered.
He had actually built several playlists that had somehow gone semi-viral. Thousands of saves. Tens of thousands, if you counted them all together. Pop bled into soul, soul melted into rap, rap softened into country, folk slipped into indie, and then somehow looped back into pop again. He didn't care about genre walls. If a song sounded honest—if it made his chest ache, his fingers twitch, or his eyes sting just a little—it went in.
People commented all the time.
How did you transition from this to that??
This cured my 2 a.m. sadness.
Bro, who ARE you??
James never replied.
In real life, he was nothing special—no tight friend group. No girlfriend. Not even a crush that crushed back. School was a blur of hallways and half-names he barely remembered. He wasn't bullied, precisely; he almost wished he was. Being bullied would have meant being noticed. Instead, he existed in the background, like the hum of an air conditioner no one thought about unless it stopped working.
He told himself he didn't mind.
Most of his "friends" lived online, people from music forums, comment sections, and Discord servers. They lived in different states, different lives. They knew his taste in music better than they knew his face. They felt close, but not close enough to be real.
Right now, James was walking home, hoodie pulled tight against the late-winter chill, earbuds snug in his ears. A song played low but steady, bass thumping in time with his steps. The sky was that dull gray-blue that meant evening but not quite night. Streetlights flickered on like they were yawning awake.
Home wasn't really home.
James was in foster care, but not the usual kind. His city had started a program. That was the word the brochures used. A "unique housing solution" for kids who had nowhere else to go. They took an abandoned college campus on the edge of town—shut down years ago after funding dried up and repurposed it.
Dorms became housing.
Floors became "family units."
Each floor had a guardian.
Not a parent. Not really. More like a supervisor with a checklist and a keycard.
James lived on the third floor of what used to be the humanities building. Faded posters still clung to the walls—quotes about literature and philosophy peeling at the corners. His room had once been a dorm: a narrow bed, a desk bolted to the floor, and a window overlooking a dead quad where weeds split the concrete paths.
It wasn't awful.
It just wasn't warm.
As he walked, James scrolled through his phone without really looking. He switched songs on instinct, letting muscle memory do the work. The next track slid in perfectly, with soft vocals, a slow build, the kind of song that made walking feel cinematic.
He was almost at the crosswalk.
The light changed.
James stepped forward.
That's when he heard it.
BEEP! BEEP!
The sound sliced through his music, sharp and wrong. His head snapped up. Headlights flooded his vision—too close, too fast. A massive truck barreled toward the intersection, clearly not slowing down.
For half a second, James froze.
Then his body moved.
He tried to jump back. Tried to twist out of the way. His foot caught on the uneven curb, and time stretched thin, as a song dragged to half-speed.
The impact came before the fear.
Metal.
Weight.
A sound like the world breaking.
And then…
Nothing.
No pain. No noise. No music.
Just silence.
Realm of the Dead Dreamers
James became aware of something before he became aware of himself.
A rhythm.
Not a heartbeat. Something larger. Slower. Like the pulse of a song before the drums kicked in.
When he opened his eyes, he wasn't on the street.
He wasn't anywhere he recognized.
He seemed to float—or stand—inside a space that felt endless and intimate at the same time. Darkness, but not empty darkness. It shimmered faintly, like a crowd waiting for a concert to start. Silent, yet full.
"Hello?" James tried to speak.
His voice didn't echo. It didn't even feel like it left him.
Then a single note rang out.
Clear. Warm. It vibrated through the space—not through his ears, but through his chest. His breath caught.
More notes followed.
A melody formed.
James didn't hear it so much as understand it. The music wasn't recorded or played. It was alive. And somewhere deep inside him, something answered back.
The melody shifted, and meaning folded into it—not words, but intention. The music asked a question, gentle and vast all at once.
What do you want, my child?
The sound felt ancient and hopeful, like the first singer or the last prayer.
James didn't hesitate.
"I want to matter," he said. "I want to exist as more than the boy who makes playlists."
The music brightened, lighter now, as if pleased.
A shape formed within the darkness, not solid, but outlined in sound. More melodies layered in, unfolding information directly into his awareness.
A choice.
What will you be?
Possibilities flared—athlete, actor, lawyer, countless paths flickering past too fast to hold.
James reached without thinking.
Musician.
Another question followed immediately, clearer now.
Instrument.
Guitar. Drums. Piano. Brass. Wind. Voice.
James chose voice.
I can learn the rest, he thought instinctively.
The music surged, approving.
Mastery will come in stages, it was conveyed—growth until maturity.
The rhythm quickened.
Another truth unfolded, heavier this time.
You will be born into a world where the songs you know do not exist. Some may emerge naturally. Others will never be created unless you do so yourself.
Decades rippled through the sound—1960s, 70s, 80s, 90s, all the way into the 2020s.
James felt the weight of it.
He chose the 2000s.
One final choice remained.
Will you retain your memories, the music asked, or begin a new life, where these songs arrive as your own original thoughts?
James thought of the playlists. The comments. The feeling of being seen but never known.
He chose a new life.
The space erupted in sound. A triumphant song blared, rich and overwhelming. His body or whatever he was now glowed, dissolving into the music.
And then—
He was gone.