Trojans

“That was lovely, Mele. You have such talent. I can’t thank you enough.”

Mele nodded, her long dark hair spilling over her shoulders like liquid silk.
“You’re welcome. I’m glad I could help.”

The woman laughed - the kind of laugh that separated people like her from everyone else. It was polished, rehearsed, and expensive.
“Help? Dear, you stole the show. You’ve become quite the celebrity, you know. Your manager must be beside himself with pride.”

Mele’s gaze slid toward her guitar case resting near the chair leg. She longed to pick it up, sling it over her shoulder, and leave this perfumed cage of a venue. But she couldn’t - not yet. She was still being paid to stay, and professionalism demanded patience.

It wasn’t the work she disliked. It was this woman - this perfect, powdered portrait of privilege. One of the sheltered ones. One of those who had hidden behind their wealth and marble walls while the rest of the world tore itself apart.

Mele smiled faintly, because it was expected of her, but the motion made her jaw ache. The woman had never seen the frontlines. Never seen the fear in the eyes of soldiers too young to shave. Never watched a tent full of laughter turn into smoke and silence overnight.

The Songstress kept her voice even. “You’re too kind.”

“Oh, nonsense.” The woman waved a gloved hand dismissively, diamonds glittering like tiny camera flashes. “I don’t understand why they call you the Reaper’s Songstress. You play and sing so beautifully! When I was first recommended you, I was rather put off by that nickname. You really should do something about it, dear.”

Mele felt her lips twitch. Do something about it.
As if the media were a polite dinner guest she could simply ask to leave.

She inhaled through her nose, forcing the heat in her chest to subside. The press were scavengers - hungry, tireless, and cruel. They didn’t care who they hurt, only who sold. Her nickname had been born from that cruelty, and it had clung to her ever since.

If she could have changed it, she would have years ago. But it was too late now. The name had fused with her image, like paint on metal. Even death wouldn’t wash it off.

She could almost picture the inevitable headline: The Reaper’s Songstress Returns to Her Maker.

Her fists clenched once before she forced them open again. “I don’t know,” she said simply.

The woman smiled warmly - genuinely, perhaps - but that only made Mele despise her more. There was a sweetness in that expression that didn’t belong in this broken world. She wanted to slap her.

“Well, thank you again,” the woman said, standing. “I’ll definitely use your services again in the future. Have a wonderful night, Songstress.”

She left with a wave and a scent of perfume that lingered too long.

Mele exhaled slowly, letting the silence of the empty backstage room settle around her like a blanket. The bare walls stared back. A single dresser with a mirror sat in the corner, its lightbulbs humming faintly.

She liked it this way - quiet, colourless, unwatching. No smiles. No lenses.

Crowds were always the hardest part. Dreamy faces, resentful faces, lustful faces - it didn’t matter. Every gaze felt like a weight pressing against her ribs. She’d long ago stopped pretending she enjoyed it. But prestige was a leash, and hers was gold-plated. If she ever walked away now, her reputation would rot overnight.

She shuddered involuntarily and sat down, the chair creaking under her. Her thoughts slipped, unbidden, to the places she never wanted to revisit.

The frontlines.

The rows of tents. The smoke curling into gray skies. The way the men - barely men, most of them - had smiled when she sang.

Back then, she wasn’t The Reaper’s Songstress. She was just Mele, the girl with the guitar who played the old folk songs and the new marches. She’d travelled from outpost to outpost, her performances offering brief reprieves from the noise of gunfire and grief.

They’d loved her for it. Every night, they’d begged for one more song.

And then came the night that changed everything.

She could still see it now: that small mess tent filled with exhausted soldiers, their eyes alight with laughter, their hands drumming on the tables in rhythm. She’d played until her fingertips bled.

And she could still remember the following night - the night she was scheduled to play again.

She arrived early. The tent was still standing, lit faintly by the sunrise. But when she stepped inside, there was no applause. No laughter. No sound but the wind whispering through the empty chairs.

The door burst open, tearing through her thoughts like a gunshot.

Mele jolted upright, her sparkly white dress rippling around her legs as a burly man filled the doorway. Framed by the light from the hall, he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a glossy magazine - broad shoulders, slicked hair, and a grin that could disarm even the most suspicious.

“Mele! That was excellent. Perfect. I couldn’t have asked for more.”

She straightened, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”

He laughed, a booming, good-natured sound that filled the small room.
“No, thank you! You’re making a name for yourself. Even with that pesky nickname, after tonight I wouldn’t be surprised if I get a call in five minutes begging for another booking.”

Mele managed another polite smile, though it faltered slightly at the edges.

“A record deal would be nice.”

The man's grin spread from ear to ear, not mocking but not encouraging either.

“You'd have to write your own song for that!”

He chuckled again, reaching into his jacket and pulling out an envelope. “Here, this came for you earlier.”

She blinked, tilting her head as she took it. The paper was heavy, expensive, the handwriting on the front neat and deliberate. She tore it open carefully and slid out a folded letter. The ink was dark and slightly smudged, written by hand instead of printed.

Her eyes skimmed the page.
“A veterans’ concert?”

“Yuppers,” he said, grinning. “A big one, too. Private venue, military sponsors, the works. In my opinion, it’s the perfect opportunity. If you can win over the soldiers, we might finally get the media to stop calling you the Reaper’s Songstress.”

Mele turned the paper over, tracing a fingertip along the blank back before reading it again more slowly. The invitation was short - formal, but respectful. Someone had clearly taken care to write it personally.

“But it says it’s private,” she murmured.

He let out a hearty laugh. “Ha! You know better than anyone. ‘Private’ doesn’t mean much to the media. If there’s a camera within a mile, they’ll find a way in. You should know that as well as I do.”

He was already pulling his phone from his pocket, the faint blue glow lighting up his face.
“See? You’re already on the news.”

He flipped the screen around.

A headline glared up at her in bold text:
Reaper’s Songstress Plays at Gala, Secures Future with Organizers.

Her stomach tightened. She’d only just finished talking to that woman - the same woman who’d smiled and thanked her moments ago. Had she already leaked it?

Mele exhaled through her nose. Maybe she should have slapped her.

The man pocketed his phone, clapping his hands once like the conversation was settled.
“So, what’ll it be?”

Mele stared at the letter again. A veterans’ concert. Soldiers. The same kind of crowd she used to play for - the kind that never asked for autographs, only songs.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it would feel real again.

She looked up and nodded. “Sure.”

“Excellent!” His grin widened. “I’ll confirm it with the organizers and send you the details tomorrow. Otherwise, you’re free to go. Have a great night, Songstress.”

He gave a playful tip of an invisible hat before striding off, the echo of his polished shoes fading down the hallway.

Mele stood still for a while after the door shut, the silence swallowing the room once more.

Then she looked down at the letter in her hands. The handwriting seemed older somehow - steady, careful, with little flourishes in the loops. She wondered who had written it.

Her mind was already drifting toward her guitar case, her fingers itching with old reflexes.
A private concert for veterans.

Maybe, just maybe, this was her chance to make peace with the ghosts.