Ballade in Dusk

“You all better brush up on your myths this time around; they’ll carry quite the weightage on the final,” Professor Thomason’s stern voice resounded off the high, cracked ceiling of the lecture hall. The sound, heavy and oppressive, seemed to gather utmost attention.
At the very back of the room, sprawled across his desk, Erel barely stirred. A tangle of stark white earphones slipped from his ears, echoing the Coda of Chopin’s Ballade No. 4. The final notes, wild and unrestrained, dissolved into the stale classroom air, leaving behind only the muffled clatter of notebooks and the scratch of pens.
For Erel, the music had been an escape, a shield against the monotony of lectures. The very tool that allowed him to survive through Thomason’s lectures on Myths.
“That’s all for today. You’re free to go,” Professor Thomason declared, snapping his leather-bound notebook closed with finality.
The room erupted. Chairs scraped against the tiles; students rushed to pack up, conversations rising across the classroom. The old building, with its faded chalkboards and bleached posters, always seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at the end of class.
Amid the chaos, a young woman cut her way through the departing crowd. Her steps were quick, her arms full of books. She stopped beside Erel, eyeing his slumped form with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
“There’s no helping him, honestly,” she muttered, shaking her head as she reached out and flicked the back of Erel’s head.
“Sleeping beauty. Class is over.”
Erel groaned, shifting his head over his crossed arms. He blinked against the harsh overhead lights and slowly sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair stuck out in wild directions, and his face bore the tardiness of an afternoon nap.
“Already over?” he mumbled, his voice thick and raspy.
The young woman, Rae, arched an eyebrow as she gathered her notes. “What do you mean ‘already over’? Some of us actually listen. That was two hours of Thomason lecturing us on Myths and Imaginarium while you drooled on your sleeve.”
Erel managed a lopsided grin, shrugging off her scolding. “Yet I’ll probably outscore you,” he replied, a familiar, cocky glint in his eyes. Confidence came as easily to him as breathing, and he wielded it like a shield.
Rae rolled her eyes, but the affection beneath her annoyance was unmistakable. She gave his head another light swat. “Bastard. You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for work again. Lyra’s going to have your head if you keep this up.”
Sudden realisation flashed across Erel’s face. He bolted upright, nearly sending his chair falling, and began stuffing his things into his backpack with urgency. “Shit, she’s going to kill me.”
“I really hope she does,” Rae said, smirking as she watched him scramble. “Maybe she’ll finally cure you of your chronic laziness.”
Erel shot her a crooked grin as he slung his bag over one shoulder. “Catch you later!” With that, he darted through the thinning crowd, leaving Rae shaking her head and stifling a laugh.
The corridors outside the classroom pulsed with late-afternoon life. It was just past four, and the sun spilt in through long windows, painting the walls with pale yellow light. Leaves rustled outside, their shadows flickering across the walls. The university itself felt alive; its old walls humming with the energy of thousands of students.
Groups of students clustered, their voices rising and falling as they shared stories, argued over assignments, or simply basked in trivialities. Erel wove through them, his strides long and purposeful. Outside, the air was crisp with autumn. The wind carried the faint, bittersweet smell of decaying leaves and the promise of coming rain, as he made it to Lyra’s café.
The Hume Café was nestled between a used bookstore and a florist, its brass sign polished to a soft gleam.
Erel paused for a moment outside, catching his breath. The café’s windows glowed with warm lamplight, inviting him in. He pushed open the door, and the bell chimed; a gentle, welcoming sound.
Inside, the world changed. The air was rich with the scent of fresh coffee and baking bread, undercut by a trace of vanilla and cinnamon. Dark wooden tables, each worn smooth by years of chatter and laughter, filled the space. Sunlight slanted through the front windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily above shelves lined with mismatched mugs and battered philosophy books. Behind the counter, the espresso machine hissed and gurgled.
“Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” called a voice from behind the counter. Lyra, Erel’s aunt, stood with her sleeves rolled up, her dark hair twisted into a bun that had long since surrendered to a few rebellious strands. Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of mock sternness and genuine affection.
“Traffic was a nightmare, trust me,” Erel replied, slipping behind the counter and grabbing his faded apron.
Lyra snorted, arching an eyebrow. “Traffic in your dreams, maybe. Rae texted, said you were sleeping through lecture again.”
Erel feigned outrage as he tied his apron. “Rae’s a traitor. And Thomason’s been recycling the same material since last semester. If I hear about Plato’s cave one more time, I’ll start digging my own.”
Lyra handed him a damp cloth to wipe down tables, her lips twitching with amusement. “The fact you know what he was covering proves my point, smartass. Now go earn your keep.”
The afternoon lull had settled in. A couple by the window laughed quietly over shared pastries. An older man in a tweed jacket sat with a newspaper, glasses perched precariously on his nose, while two students huddled over laptops, their attention more on each other than their screens. The café felt like an escape from the tension outside, an escape from the hardships of Imaginarium, a place of slow comfort and gentle order amid the world’s rush.
Erel worked the floor with familiarity, clearing mugs, resetting tables, exchanging smiles and pleasantries. The rhythm of the place grounded him, each task a small ritual.
Lyra joined him as he wiped down a table in the corner. She kept her voice low, her eyes scanning the café. “There is a forecast today…”
Erel paused with confusion lacing his voice, glancing up, he muttered. “Forecast, inside Seol?”
Lyra’s expression grew serious, the lines around her eyes deepening. “The forecast mentioned paradox plane activity tonight. Low-level, but close. They’re predicting a breach.”
A chill prickled at the back of Erel’s neck. The words “paradox plane” had always struck him with a mix of fascination and dread. Thirteen years ago, a paradox plane had claimed his parents, spaces where reality itself could fold, twist, or break apart, leaving nothing but questions in their wake. Some called them nature’s riddles; for Erel, they were scars that never quite healed.
“They’re saying concordat already plans on sending Anomalites in,” Lyra continued, her gaze gentle but steady. “Just… take the long way home tonight. Avoid the river. That’s where they expect it. Still a plane inside a Sovereign Zone, god knows what we should expect next.”
“Thanks,” Erel muttered, his voice a shade too tight. He scrubbed at the tabletop with unnecessary force, fighting to keep his thoughts from spiralling.
Lyra placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “I wouldn’t bring it up if it wasn’t important. I know you hate this stuff.”
“It’s fine. I appreciate the warning,” he replied, forcing his voice to sound casual. The truth was, each mention of paradox planes felt like picking at an old scab. He remembered the news reports, the whispered condolences, the way Lyra had knelt beside him to explain that his parents would never come home, how they died protecting him.
Lyra tried to lighten the mood, her features softening. “You know, your mother always said paradox planes were like riddles from the universe, places where reality asks questions of itself. A place where the stories that we wrote came to life to prove the strength of human imagination.”
A shadow of a smile crossed Erel’s face. Memories of his mother were fragile and rare but cherished. “I don’t remember her saying that.”
“You were so little. She was a dreamer. Your father was the practical one, always double-checking everything. God knows how they clicked together.”
Erel absorbed this quietly, a new facet added to the blurred image of his parents. Even now, years later, details emerged in small increments, each one a piece of a puzzle that would never be whole.
Lyra squeezed his shoulder once more, then let go. “Enough heavy talk. Coffee’s not going to serve itself.”
The rest of Erel’s shift passed in the gentle routine of the café’s closing hours. He took orders, made drinks, refilled sugar jars, and exchanged the small pleasantries that made regulars feel at home. He watched the sun dip lower, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor. The strange lingered in the back of his mind, but the café’s warm lights and familiar rhythms made it feel distant.
By eight o’clock, only one customer remained: a student hunched over her laptop, headphones in, mouthing along to lyrics only she could hear. Lyra wiped her hands on a cloth and approached Erel at the counter.
“You can head out,” she said, her tone brisk but kind. “I’ll close up tonight.”
“You sure?” Erel asked, though he was already untying his apron.
“Yeah. I want you home before things get weird. And remember—”
“Stay away from the river,” Erel finished, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I remember.”
He fetched his backpack from the back, paused to give Lyra a quick hug, and stepped out into the night. The air had cooled, the city’s daytime clamour replaced by the hush of evening. Streetlights flickered on, their yellow halos illuminating patches of sidewalk and leaving the spaces in between in deep shadow.
Erel kept to the main roads, avoiding the shortcut along the river as Lyra had advised. The commercial district was quieter now, most shops shuttered and dark. A few late-night cafés glowed invitingly, their windows fogged and filled with the gentle murmur of conversation. The wind carried scraps of distant music, mingling with the faint scent of rain on concrete.
Yet something felt… off. The air was thicker than usual, almost syrupy. The ripples he’d noticed earlier had grown stronger, distorting the streetlights so they shimmered and bent like reflections. The Imaginarium, a substance that emerged from the planes, was clearly active tonight. A low pressure built behind Erel’s ears, the sensation not unlike descending rapidly in an aeroplane.
He muttered to himself, “Climate change. That’s all.”
But his pace quickened. Instinct told him to get home as soon as possible, to put solid walls between himself and the shifting world outside.
At the corner of a street, Erel stopped short. No matter how he tried to retrace his route, he kept ending up by the river, a place he’d gone out of his way to avoid. The water was eerily still, reflecting the city lights in perfect, undisturbed lines. The sidewalks around him extended beyond, yet he found himself in the same spot.
Confused, Erel walked frantically only to be on the same corner of the street after a few minutes.
‘Okay, maybe not climate change.’
The air around him seemed to get oppressive. The Imaginarium shimmered visibly, and Erel’s breath caught in his throat.
‘No.’
A fissure appeared in the air, subtle at first, then widening into a vertical seam shot through with shifting colours. Through it, he glimpsed a place that couldn’t exist: a stately ancient mansion perched atop a rolling green hill, starkly out of place amid the city’s concrete and glass.
Erel’s panic surged. He tried to turn, to run, but his legs moved of their own accord, carrying him inexorably toward the tear. His mind raced, as he commanded his body to obey, yet none of it helped. He could observe but not act.
“Stop,” he whispered, but his mouth barely formed the word. It felt as if he were watching his own body from a great distance, powerless.
At the edge of the tear, reality bent. The world fragmented around him, and he fell, not down, but in every direction at once, tumbling through layers of reality itself.
For one timeless instant, Erel felt nothing.
Then, silence.

Chapter end