Chapter 6: The Playlist of the Dead

The Frequency had depths.

Miles always thought it was just a transitional space — liminal, like the pause between verses. But after the ghost chords incident, the studio began shifting. Or maybe he was shifting.

He wandered deeper one night — or whatever passed for night in this spectral reality — beyond the usual walls of blinking consoles and ethereal instruments.

That’s when he heard it.

Music.

Not Leah’s voice. Not his.

Hundreds of voices. Thousands. A collage of tones layered in impossible harmony and distortion. Some tracks bled sorrow, others joy. One was just a loop of laughter breaking into static.

He followed the sound, pulled like a tuning fork.

And then, he found it.

A vault. No walls. Just air trembling with memory.

Each song floated in place like a hovering vinyl sleeve made of light. Tags etched into them in faded, flickering letters:

“Amara L., 1956 – unfinished lullaby.”

“Kaito Y., 2004 – final note before impact.”

“Eliot B., 1977 – confessional (denied release).”

This was no archive.

It was a graveyard.

Cassiel appeared behind him, arms crossed, voice low.

“You found the Playlist.”

Miles stared at the floating symphony, stunned. “These are…?”

“Songs never completed. Music that kept souls bound. Most of them don’t even know they’re here anymore.”

Miles walked among them, the spectral audio brushing against him like cobwebs.

One track flickered into his hand. A trembling acoustic riff. Minor key. Haunted and raw.

His.

His unfinished EP. The one he died before recording properly.

He clutched the sonic imprint like a lost photograph. “Is this what happens to all of us?”

Cassiel nodded. “The Frequency remembers what we can’t let go.”

Meanwhile, back in the waking world, Leah stirred from sleep, heart racing.

The song had come again.

She’d never heard it before — and yet, the melody clung to her bones like an old scar. It whispered in a tongue she didn’t know how to speak, but felt like she’d always known.

She sat at her keyboard, half-asleep, letting her hands follow the dream.

The chords weren’t hers.

But the emotion was.

When she hit “record,” the screen flickered. An echo vibrated the air behind her.

She spun around.

Empty.

Only the quiet hum of electricity. But it didn’t feel like electricity. It felt like presence.

In the Playlist chamber, Miles touched the glowing thread of Leah’s recording — now weaving into the vault, entangling with his own unfinished work.

“She’s in here,” he whispered.

Cassiel’s face darkened. “And she shouldn’t be.”

Miles turned. “Then why is she?”

“Because you opened the door. You left echoes behind.”

“Can we pull her back out?”

Cassiel didn’t answer immediately.

Then: “Not if you keep writing through her. Her soul is syncing with the dead — harmonizing with songs never meant for her.”

Miles stared at the music bleeding together — chords, confessions, ghosts.

He whispered, “What if finishing my song finishes her?”

Cassiel nodded grimly. “Now you’re asking the right questions.”

Leah sat on her studio floor, playback looping.

The melody she’d just recorded felt perfect — but wrong. Like it wasn’t hers. Like she’d borrowed it from somewhere sacred.

And from the corner of her room… she swore she heard someone humming along.

She whispered: “What are you?”

But no one answered.

Only the playlist kept playing.