The sky rumbled over London with a low, ominous growl. Storm clouds surged across the horizon like a tide, casting the city in premature twilight. In a modest semi-detached house in London, Ethan Thompson paced the living room, phone clenched in a white-knuckled grip.
His wife, Sarah, was at the hospital, about to give birth to their daughter. A moment he had imagined a thousand times, now slipping from his grasp.
"Come on, come on..." he muttered, refreshing his messages again. No updates. The last had come half an hour ago from Sarah's sister: Still in labour. Doctor says it won't be long now.
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the living room in a white-hot glow. Thunder followed immediately, rattling the windows with its ferocity. Ethan had never been afraid of storms, but tonight felt different, charged with a strange electricity that raised the hair on his arms. The house seemed to hold its breath. Even the air tasted metallic.
He should be at the hospital, holding Sarah's hand, whispering that it would all be okay. But torrential flooding had cut off the roads. He'd tried—nearly skidded off the motorway before turning back. And now, all he could do was wait.
He paused by the piano—an old upright tucked into the corner of the room. He had bought it for Sarah as a wedding gift, though neither of them had played much since. Still, sometimes when she thought he wasn't listening, she would sit down and let her fingers drift over the keys, coaxing soft melodies into the silence. Tonight, the piano was silent, but something inside Ethan hummed, as though the air itself was vibrating with a song he couldn't hear.
Before he could react, a deafening crack split the air as lightning struck far too close. The lights flared, then died. A surge of energy ripped through the house, through the phone charger still plugged into the wall—and into Ethan.
He didn't even have time to scream. The force threw him backwards, his vision flashing white, then black. A final, panicked thought struck like a dissonant chord in his mind:I'm going to miss everything.
---
Before she could register the weight of the moment, the nurse with short auburn hair stepped into the hospital room, the click of her pen against the clipboard the only sound in the sterile space. Her eyes, focused on the chart, missed the subtle shift in the atmosphere. But as she finally glanced up, her breath caught in her throat, and the clipboard slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor.
"Dr. Williams! He's awake!"
The urgency in her voice shattered the stillness, and as the echo of her words faded, hurried footsteps rushed in—pulse-quickening, chaotic. A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair burst into the room, his white coat bearing the name Dr. Alan Williams stitched in navy blue.
Ethan's world came into focus amidst the whirlwind of noise and emotion. He blinked against the harsh, sterile white light. The rhythmic beeping of machines filled the air, punctuating the haze of his mind. The sound was a lifeline, grounding him in a reality that felt both foreign and terrifying.
But as he attempted to move, an overwhelming sensation coursed through him—every muscle felt alien, sluggish and weak, as if he were waking from a long, deep sleep. Breathing had become a Herculean task, each inhale a struggle against the weight of fatigue. His joints protested, as if they had forgotten how to cooperate.
Panic flared momentarily in his chest, igniting a dissonant chord of fear. Did time really slip away from him? Had he truly been gone for so long?
"Ethan Thompson, can you hear me?" The doctor's voice broke through the haze, kind yet urgent.
Ethan licked his dry lips, the word barely forming in his throat. "W-where... how long?"
The doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse, then pulled up a chair, settling into it with a gravitas that sent icy dread spiraling through Ethan.
That alone terrified him.
"Mr. Thompson, you've been in a coma for two years."
The words struck him like a physical blow. Time had slipped away, and now he was lost in a world where the precious moments of life continued without him.
His breath caught in his throat. "Sarah... Lily... where are they?"
"They're safe. Your wife never stopped visiting. She's on her way."
Ethan's mind reeled. His daughter. The baby he never met. A toddler now, a stranger. What had he missed? First words? First steps? Her laugh? Her tears?
The door opened. Sarah stood there, hesitant, trembling.
She was older. Beautiful still, but changed. New lines framed her mouth. Her hair was pulled back hastily, and her eyes—once so bright—were rimmed red with exhaustion. But when she saw him, those eyes filled with something brighter than disbelief: hope.
"Ethan..."
She crossed the room in three quick steps and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Her fingers hovered an inch above his skin, as if afraid that touching him might wake her from a dream. Her voice broke. "You're awake. You're really awake."
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she touched his face with shaking hands. For two years she had come to this hospital. Spoken to a body that never answered. Read books to a man who never stirred. Now here he was, eyes open, looking back at her.
"I thought I'd lost you."
Ethan couldn't speak. He could only hold her hand as she wept.
Then, a smaller presence stepped into the doorway. A little girl with dark curls and wide eyes peeked into the room, clinging to a stuffed rabbit and her mother's leg. She crossed the room in seconds, hands trembling as she touched his face. Behind her stood a little girl, barely past toddlerhood, with dark curls and cautious eyes that mirrored his own.
"Mummy... who's that?"
Ethan's heart broke and soared all at once.
Sarah beckoned her forward. "Sweetheart, this is your daddy."
He held out a trembling hand. "Hello, Lily."
She studied him. Her father was a stranger.
Then, she took a small cautious step forward, her wide eyes bright with curiosity. Gently, extended her tiny hand, fingers barely outstretched, and nestled it into his. "Hi," she said, her voice as soft as her touch, a simple greeting that marked a new beginning.
Then, with the quiet wisdom of a child, she stepped closer and placed her small hand into his. "Hi."
A single tear slid down Ethan's cheek.
And then, without warning, a crystalline chime rang in his mind:
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING…]
A rush of data flooded his senses—musical theory, composition structures, harmonics. His fingers twitched involuntarily.
[Welcome, Host.]
[After prolonged dormancy, the Divine Musician System has been activated.]
[Objective: Aid recovery. Protect the child. Prepare for resonance.]
[Skill integration in progress…]
His breath caught.
Sarah saw the shift in his expression. "Ethan? What's wrong?"
He stared at his hands. "I… I think I just remembered how to play the piano."
"But you never learned."
"I know. But I can now."
He didn't understand how.
Something had changed in him.
But as he looked at Sarah and Lily—his family, whole and together again—for the first time in two years, he didn't feel afraid.
A spark had been lit.
And he was going to turn it into a symphony.