You hadn't meant to wander this far. The common room felt too warm, too crowded with the embers of conversation and the weight of unread scrolls. You needed air. Silence. A moment where your thoughts could spread out without bumping into someone else's.

But now, in the stillness of the seventh-floor corridor, you hear it.

A voice.

Low at first, barely more than a breath against the stone walls. Then rising—tentative, like someone testing the weight of a note before committing to it.

It's your song. The one you hum under your breath between classes, the one that got stuck in your head three days ago and hasn't left since.

The voice is beautiful. Warm. A little rough around the edges, as if the singer isn't used to letting anyone hear this part of him. He stumbles on a high note, corrects himself, and presses on with a quiet determination that makes your chest ache.

The sound drifts from a door slightly ajar at the end of the corridor. Faint candlelight spills through the crack. The nameplate reads Abandoned Music Room, but the hinges are oiled, the brass handle polished.

You step closer. The voice grows clearer.