Chapter 1: The Boy Who Screamed in Silence

The cerebral aneurysm struck Kazuki Shindō at the most inopportune moment possible.

He stood before the Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra, baton in hand, about to conduct the world premiere of his masterpiece: Requiem for a Deaf World. Two years of composition. Twelve hundred hours of work. His final love letter to an art he could no longer fully experience.

He had lost his hearing six months earlier. A stupid accident: he slipped on subway stairs, struck his head against the concrete edge. The doctors said he was lucky to be alive. Kazuki wasn’t so sure.

What was a composer without the ability to hear?

But he had learned to compensate. He felt vibrations through the floor. Memorized scores with photographic precision. Read the musicians’ lips, observed their breathing, the movement of their fingers on instruments.

He raised the baton.

The violins followed, or so he believed. He couldn’t hear them, but he could see them move. That had to be enough.

Then, the pain.

Like someone had driven an ice pick directly into his brain. The baton fell from his numb fingers. The world tilted. The musicians’ faces distorted into silent expressions of horror.

Silent.

Everything had always been silent for him.

The polished wooden floor rushed toward his face. He thought, with the strange clarity that comes just before death, that it was ironic. Dying on stage. Like a true romantic artist.

His vision darkened.

And then...

He heard something.

Not with his ears. Those had died months ago. But he felt a vibration, deep and resonant, that pierced every cell in his body. A sustained note. An A-flat that extended to infinity.

The heartbeat of the universe itself.

His last consciousness was one of wonder. After months of silence, he was finally hearing music again.

Then, nothing.

The baby didn’t cry.

That was the first sign something was wrong.

The midwife, a robust woman named Greta who had brought half the village into the world, frowned as she held the newborn. She gave him a slap on the bottom. Nothing. Another slap, harder. The baby squirmed, his tiny face turned red, his mouth opened in what should have been a piercing scream.

But no sound emerged.

“What’s wrong?” asked Elara, the mother, her voice weak from the bed. It had been a difficult birth. Thirty hours of labor to bring this child into the world. “Why isn’t he crying?”

“I don’t know.” Greta examined the baby’s throat, his lungs seemed to expand normally. “He’s breathing fine, but... he’s not making any sound.”

Theron, the father, rushed over quickly. He was a large man, a former mercenary turned village blacksmith. His hands, which could bend steel, trembled as he gently touched his son’s cheek.

“Is he alive?”

“Of course he’s alive. Look at him kick. He just... can’t cry.”

The baby’s eyes—a strange amber-gold color that neither parent possessed—blinked open. And in those eyes, there was something. A consciousness that shouldn’t exist in a newborn. A depth that made Greta instinctively step back.

“May the First Ones protect us,” she murmured. “This child...”

“Give me my son,” Elara demanded, extending her arms despite her exhaustion.

Greta obeyed, carefully placing the silent baby in his mother’s arms. Elara held him close, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay, little one. You don’t need to cry. You’re safe.”

The baby—Caelum, they would name him later, for the color of the dawn sky when he was born—looked at his mother with those impossible eyes.

And in his mind, a mind containing the memories of twenty-eight years as Kazuki Shindō, he thought:

Where am I? What happened to me? Why can’t I speak?

He tried to scream, but his voice produced no sound.

He tried again. Nothing.

Panic flooded him. He had died. He was certain he had died. The aneurysm, the stage, the pain. And now he was... where? In a baby? Reincarnated?

This is impossible. This can’t be real.

But the warmth of his mother’s embrace was undeniable. The smell of blood and sweat and something herbal in the air. The rough texture of the blanket wrapping him. Everything was too vivid to be a dream.

He tried to speak again, with all his will.

Silence.

And thus began the second life of Kazuki Shindō: trapped in a body that couldn’t express itself, in a world he didn’t understand, screaming in a silence that no one else could hear.

Eight years later

Caelum sat by the window of his small room, watching the sunrise paint the sky in shades of pink and gold. In his hands, he held a small wooden slate, the kind children used to practice letters. He had learned to write at three. By four, he was writing with an adult’s fluency, which had alarmed his parents until they decided they simply had a precocious son.

If only they knew.

He wrote on the slate: Day 2,847 since rebirth. Still can’t speak. Still don’t understand why.

He erased the words with his sleeve. It was a habit. Writing his thoughts, then destroying them. He couldn’t risk anyone finding evidence that he was... different.

A knock on his door. His mother entered without waiting for a response, as she always did. Elara was a beautiful woman, even at forty, with long brown hair that always smelled of the herbs she grew in her garden.

“Good morning, my sky,” she said in a cheerful voice, though Caelum noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She never slept well. She worried about him constantly. “Ready for your lesson with Master Aldric?”

Caelum nodded, sketching a smile he hoped looked genuine. Master Aldric was the village scholar, a dry old man who taught noble children and some promising commoners. Theron had insisted Caelum receive education, despite his “disability.”

“He may not be able to sing spells,” his father had said firmly, “but that doesn’t mean he can’t learn.”

Caelum rose, taking his slate and the small pouch containing chalk. His mother ruffled his hair—jet black, like his father’s—and kissed his forehead.

“I love you,” she said. “No matter what, I’ll always love you. You know that, right?”

Caelum quickly wrote: I know, Mom.

But part of him wondered if she really would if she knew the truth. If she knew the soul inside her son was that of a stranger from another world.

Master Aldric’s house was on the edge of town, a two-story stone structure covered in vines. Caelum walked the familiar path, his bare feet silent against the packed earth.

The village of Gray Ash was small, maybe three hundred souls in total. It was located in the valley between two mountains, surrounded by forests the locals called “The Green Whisper” because the wind through the trees sounded like singing voices.

At least, that’s what everyone said. Caelum had never heard the voices.

But he heard other things.

As he walked, he perceived something no one else seemed to notice. A low, deep vibration pulsing from the center of the village. Like an underground heartbeat. He had felt it since birth, but in recent years it had grown stronger.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Was it his imagination? An illusion created by his damaged brain? Kazuki had lost his hearing, but his brain sometimes created phantom sounds. Was the same thing happening now?

“Caelum!”

He turned to see a boy his age running toward him. Finn, the innkeeper’s son. A sturdy boy with freckles and a perpetual smile.

“Are you going to see Master Aldric?” asked Finn, panting. “Me too. My father says if I learn enough arithmetic, I can help with the inn’s books.”

Caelum nodded, smiling. Finn was one of the few children who didn’t treat him like a curiosity. He simply accepted his silence.

“I heard today he’s going to teach us about the Foundation Song,” Finn continued as they walked together. “Mom says it’s the most important story in the world. That without the Song, nothing would exist.”

The Foundation Song. Caelum had heard references to it before. Apparently, this world had been literally “sung” into existence by ancient beings called the First Composers.

It sounded like mythology. But lately, Caelum wasn’t so sure.

They arrived at Master Aldric’s house. The door was open. Inside, four other children were already seated on the floor in a semicircle. Master Aldric, a gaunt man with a white beard reaching his chest, stood before a large tapestry hanging from the wall.

The tapestry showed a strange image: humanoid figures with open mouths from which emanated lines of brilliant light. The lines intertwined, forming complex patterns that eventually became mountains, trees, rivers, people.

“Ah, Finn, Caelum. Sit down,” said Aldric in his raspy voice. His eyes settled on Caelum with the usual expression: pity mixed with curiosity.

Caelum hated that look.

They sat. Aldric cleared his throat.

“Today,” he began, “we will learn about the beginning of all things. The Symphony of Creation.”

He traced his hand over the tapestry.

“Ten thousand years ago, before the earth or sky or even time itself existed, there was only Silence. Absolute void. And in that void, the First Composers awakened.”

The children listened attentively. Even Caelum, despite his skepticism, found himself captivated.

“The Composers had no form. They had no name. They were pure intention, pure will. And they decided to create. But how do you create when nothing exists?”

Aldric paused dramatically.

“They sang.”

He paced back and forth.

“The First Composer sang the Note of Existence. And from that note was born space. The Second Composer sang the Note of Change. And time was born. The Third Composer sang the Note of Form. And matter crystallized from the void.”

Three Composers, thought Caelum. A creator trinity. Like many mythologies.

“Together, they wove their voices in harmony. And thus was born the Symphony of Creation: the infinite melody that sustains all reality. Gravity is its basso continuo. Time is its rhythm. Life itself is its harmony.”

Aldric pointed to different parts of the tapestry.

“Everything that exists is music. Mountains are low notes that anchor regions. Oceans are necessary silences between movements. Every living being has its own true name: a unique frequency in the great symphony.”

A chill ran down Caelum’s spine.

Unique frequency. True name.

“But,” Aldric’s voice turned grim, “the Symphony is incomplete.”

The children exchanged nervous glances.

“During the Great War against the Dissonants—beings of chaos that exist outside all harmony—a thousand heroes sacrificed their true names to create the Seal of Silence. Their identities were erased from the Symphony, creating a thousand missing notes.”

Aldric touched a frayed part of the tapestry.

“And with each passing year, the Seal weakens. The Symphony unravels. The wise say that one day, the Dissonants will awaken. And when they do, reality itself will dissolve into chaos.”

Silence in the room. Then, a girl named Mira timidly raised her hand.

“Master Aldric, how can we stop them?”

The old man sighed.

“The prophecies speak of someone who will restore the Thousand Lost Names. A Reborn Composer who can hear the forgotten frequencies and weave the complete Symphony anew.”

His eyes, almost as if by accident, slid toward Caelum.

“But it’s just a legend. A hope in the darkness.”

That night, Caelum couldn’t sleep.

He lay in his bed, staring at the wooden beam ceiling, while the weight of Master Aldric’s words pressed against his chest.

Reborn Composer. Forgotten frequencies. True names.

Could it be...? No. It was ridiculous. It was just a story. Mythology to frighten children.

But then, why was his heart beating so hard? Why had every word resonated deep within his being like a recognized truth?

He got up, walking to the window. The full moon hung low in the sky, bathing the village in silver light. Everything was still.

And then he heard it.

Not with his ears. With something deeper. A vibration that passed through his body like electricity.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The heartbeat that had always been there, but now stronger. More urgent.

Caelum pressed his hand against the wall. The vibrations traveled through the wood, the floor, emanating from somewhere in the village center.

Without thinking, he dressed and silently left the house.

The village streets were empty. His bare feet made no sound as he followed the vibration, letting it guide him like an invisible thread.

It led him to the village plaza. And there, in the center, stood the Singing Stone.

It was an ancient monolith of black crystal, three meters tall, engraved with runes no one could read. The elders said it had been there since before the village was founded. Children sometimes used it as base during their games, but it always felt wrong to do so. Like desecrating something sacred.

Caelum approached slowly.

The vibrations were stronger here. So intense his teeth chattered. The Stone seemed to pulse, though it was perfectly still.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

He extended his hand, his fingers inches from the black, gleaming surface.

“Don’t touch it.”

Caelum spun sharply. A figure emerged from the shadows beside the inn. Too thin, wrapped completely in gray bandages that covered every inch of skin. Only the eyes were visible: pale white and without pupils.

Caelum had seen this person before. They appeared in the village occasionally, always silent, always alone. The locals whispered they were a vagrant, possibly a leper. No one approached them.

“If you touch it now,” the figure continued in a voice that was barely a whisper, “you’ll awaken before you’re ready. And it will destroy you.”

Caelum stepped back, his heart racing. He reached for his slate, but he’d left it at home.

The figure tilted their head, studying him.

“You can hear it, can’t you? The crack in the Symphony. The heartbeat of a dying world.”

Caelum nodded slowly.

“I knew it.” The figure approached, moving with unnatural grace. “You’re like me. Existing between frequencies. Neither completely here nor completely... absent.”

They stopped a meter away.

“My name is Silens. Or at least, that’s what I call myself now. I lost my true name long ago.”

Caelum pointed to his throat, then shook his head. I can’t speak.

“I know,” Silens said softly. “But I can hear you anyway.”

Caelum blinked. What?

“Your voice exists in the spectrum of silence. The primordial frequency. To the world, you’re mute. But to me...” Silens paused. “To me, you’re deafening.”

Impossible. It was impossible. No one had ever heard him. Not a single person in eight years.

Caelum opened his mouth, trying to form words. He tried with all his being to produce sound.

“Can you... hear me?” he mouthed, though no audible sound emerged.

Silens nodded.

“Every word. Your voice is like bells in the mist. Beautiful and terrible.”

Tears sprang from Caelum’s eyes without warning. Eight years. Eight years of silence, of being trapped inside his own head, of screaming without being heard.

And now...

“Why?” Caelum whispered, and this time he felt the vibration in his throat though his ears caught nothing. “Why can you hear me?”

“Because I too exist outside the Symphony,” Silens replied. “I’m a name that was never sung. A void with form. And in that void, your silence resonates.”

Silens pointed to the Singing Stone.

“That stone is a fragment of the Original Symphony. One of the foundations. It’s calling to you because it recognizes what you are.”

“And what am I?” Caelum asked, his voice trembling.

Silens looked at him for a long moment.

“The Third Composer. Reborn.”

The world seemed to tilt. Caelum staggered.

“No. That’s... it’s just a story. A legend.”

“Is it?” Silens extended a bandaged hand. “Then explain to me why you can hear the world’s agony. Why your voice exists at the frequency of creation. Why you’ve been brought from another world.”

Caelum froze. “How do you know...?”

“Because I was there,” Silens said quietly. “When the Composers created this world, I was the first mistake. The first discordant note. I’ve been here from the beginning, watching the cycle over and over.”

Caelum felt his legs give way. He sat heavily on the cobblestone ground.

“I don’t understand. I don’t want this. I just want... to live normally. Have a family. Be happy.”

“I know,” said Silens, and for the first time, there was something like compassion in that whispering voice. “But the world doesn’t ask what we want. It only demands what it needs.”

Silens turned to leave.

“In three years, the Royal Academy will open its doors to new students. You must go. There you’ll find answers. And perhaps...” a pause, “perhaps you’ll find others who can hear you too.”

“Wait!” Caelum stood clumsily. “How can I control this? How can I understand what I am?”

Silens looked back.

“Learn to listen, not with your ears, but with your soul. The world is constantly singing. Learn its song.”

And then, as if they had never been there, Silens disappeared into the shadows.

Caelum remained alone in the village plaza, trembling, tears drying on his cheeks.

He looked at the Singing Stone. It still pulsed with that dull, impossible heartbeat.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

For the first time in eight years, Caelum didn’t feel completely alone.

But at the same time, the weight of what might be his destiny threatened to crush him.

Reborn Composer.

Thousand Lost Names.

A dying world.

He closed his eyes and, for the first time since being born in this strange body, tried to do something he’d never considered possible.

He tried to sing.

No sound came from his mouth. But he felt something: a vibration emanating from his chest, traveling through the ground, touching the Singing Stone.

And for a brief moment, the Stone responded.

A single note, clear and pure, resonated in his mind. A D-sharp that contained within itself the promise of a symphony yet unwritten.

Caelum opened his eyes, gasping.

The village was silent. No one else had heard anything.

But he knew the truth.

His journey had begun.

And the silence that had imprisoned him all his life might be the key to saving a dying world.

Or destroying it completely.

End of Chapter 1

To be continued in Chapter 2: “The Echoes of a Forgotten Name”