“Been through something like this before, maybe? I don’t know,” Helen says to Jakem and Mercy, lifting up her crossbow as well, “Be ready for anything, keep an eye out.”

The alley twists between Victorian buildings in a way that doesn’t quite match the street grid outside. Gas lamps flicker along the brick walls, their light catching on ornate ironwork and the thick carpet of autumn leaves covering the cobblestones. The air smells of October chill and something sweeter, almost floral.

Jakem, Helen, and Mercy find themselves walking through the passage when the first wrongness hits: a profound certainty that they’re late. Desperately, urgently late for something important, though none of them can quite remember what.

A pocket watch hanging from a nearby gate spins wildly forward. A phone screen in Helen’s pocket shows 3:47 AM, then 9:12 PM, then 11:33 PM in rapid succession. The old clock face on a gas lamp timer crawls backward, minute hand trembling.

The leaves beneath their feet have arranged themselves into lines across the cobblestones. Musical staff lines. The crimson and amber leaves cluster into shapes that might be notes, shifting position with each gust of wind that shouldn’t exist in this enclosed space.

Ahead, a door in the brick wall stands slightly ajar. Through the gap, instead of the courtyard that should be there, velvet curtains are visible. The dusty smell of old theaters drifts out.

The compulsion to hurry intensifies. They’re late. So terribly late.

From somewhere deeper in the alley comes the sound of a violin being tuned, the same note played over and over, never quite reaching the right pitch.

Mercy says “Aw fuck man this like a bad mushroom trip.“

Jakem pushes past the other two, making a dash for the door “They’ll punish the last one worst, better get a move on cause one of you two is going to be last!” he bellows as he tries to move through the door.

Mercy says “Wh- “

Mercy breaks into a run at that.

Helen looks to her phone now, squinting, “My phone is acting up…” She looks around herself as well, “Time is changing on it rapidly, what is going on here…” She looks towards the leaves beneath their feet, the musical staff lines, “Anyone read music?”

“I can’t. I can’t get it right. They’re all waiting and I can’t–“

The violin note breaks off mid-sustain.

Helen begins to hurry after Mercy and Jakem now, trying to get to that door with them.

Mercy exclaims “Hell naw I ain’ smart or cultured!” and beelines for the door after Jakem.

Jakem might reach the door, thrusting it open to peer inside “If you can’t get it right, just play whatever. These dumbbutts don’t know the difference.” he councils the disembodied voice.

The door swings wide under Jakem’s hand, revealing not a room but a space that extends impossibly far back. Backstage. Vast and dusty, filled with velvet curtains in deep burgundy that hang from a ceiling lost in shadow. Abandoned instrument cases line the walls, their leather cracked with age. Mirrors in ornate gilt frames reflect empty concert halls, row upon row of plush seats facing stages where no one performs.

The violin sound comes from deeper within, echoing strangely.

As Mercy and Helen rush to follow, the door’s threshold resists slightly, like pushing through water. The moment they cross it, their clothing shifts at the edges. Jakem’s jacket develops the ghost of a cummerbund at the waist. Helen’s shirt collar stiffens into something more formal. Mercy’s sleeves begin gathering into elegant folds.

The backstage area smells of rosin and old wood and stage makeup that’s decades past its expiration. More doors line the space, each one slightly ajar, each one showing the same impossible theater beyond. Some of the mirrors don’t reflect the three of them at all. Instead, they show audiences in 1920s formal wear, waiting with programs in their laps.

“They’ll know,” a girl’s voice responds to Jakem from somewhere ahead, young and terrified. “They always know when you make a mistake. And I can’t remember. I can’t remember how the third movement goes and I’m so late, I’m so late, they’ve been waiting for a hundred years–“

The metronome quality of her words is unmistakable. Four beats per measure, perfectly timed.

Behind them, the alley door remains open, but the passage beyond now shows three different versions of itself, each at a different time of night.

Jakem hmmm’s as he glances back behind himself “Oh yeah? Well shit, I mean there’s not much you can do for that.” he says distractedly as he studies the doorway, looking to Helen “Hey, what times was your phone showing? I think that clock on the post was showin’ three different ones, and it looks like three different times out there. Think it’s important?” he muses.

Helen says to Jakem as she looks around herself and towards Mercy, “Nice sleeves, fancy…” She looks back to Jakem, “3:47am, 9:12pm, 11:33pm. I remember those three at least…” She takes another look around, towards the mirrors, the crowd, and she says, “It looks like this… someone is reliving some performance nightmare. I really wish Teagan was here, she literally plays the violin.”

Magic, music, basic education. Mercy is so out of her element that the southern bumpkin can do little more than continuously whirl around at every noise, crossbow aimed and ready, her nose up in the air out of habit to sniff for anything particularly weird. She does stop by one of the mirrors though, eyeing the audience depicted within that isn’t actually there.

The audience in the mirror Mercy examines sits perfectly still, hands folded over programs, faces expectant. Waiting. They’ve been waiting so long their formal wear has gone out of style and come back again. One woman in the front row has a single tear frozen on her cheek. They don’t blink.

“A performance nightmare,” Helen’s words seem to resonate through the space. The curtains shiver.

From deeper in the backstage area, the sound of footsteps. Small footsteps, running. A girl in a white dress flashes past one of the doorways, her dark hair in ringlets, a violin case clutched to her chest. She’s translucent at the edges, more memory than matter.

“I have to find it,” her voice echoes from multiple directions at once, still maintaining that metronomic rhythm. “The sheet music. I had it. I know I had it. Third movement, measures forty-seven through sixty-three. If I don’t have it they’ll know. Everyone will know I’m a fraud–“

The clothing transformations accelerate. Jakem’s shirt develops a bow tie that wasn’t there a moment ago. Helen’s practical boots are becoming something with a slight heel. Mercy’s crossbow strap shifts into something that might be a formal sash if the change continues.

One of the instrument cases near them clicks open on its own. Inside, nestled in faded velvet, is a violin. Not old and dusty like everything else here. This one gleams, impossibly pristine, as if it’s been waiting in perfect stasis.

The air grows thicker. Moving feels like wading through stage fright made physical.

Behind them, through the doorway, the three versions of the alley have become more distinct. One shows early evening, one shows deep night, one shows the grey hour before dawn. The cobblestones in each are arranged in different musical notations.

Jakem tsks at Mercy, gesturing to her new, fancier clothing “Young ladies don’t fire off crossbows into crowds of elite richy rich types.” he chides. He coughs “Wait, so there’s a performance? Well obviously you’re going to need an opening act.” he says, adjusting his bow tie as if he were always wearing it, straightening it first, then turning it crooked with a grin to match. “You chaps find the sheet music, I’ll warm up the crowd a bit.”

“Aw shit yer right, Teagan woulda been perfect fer this.” Mercy agrees with a huff. Then the sound of running feet and a flash of white catches her notice, head whipping towards the doorway the girl had flitted past. Her sights then turn to Jakem and she just stares at him in disbelief, and maybe vague horror, leaning in to whisper in the hopes the ghost girl won’t overhear. “.. We ain’ gonna have to do like a singin’ an’ dance number, are we? Ain’ sure my twerkin’ gonna cut it this time.”

Helen looks back towards the doorways leading out into the various streets. She steps towards one, “There must be something out there. The leaves before were like lines of music… I am going to investigate one of them, wish me luck?” She steps towards the late at night, the third act, perhaps, compared to the other two and peers outside.

33 PM. As she crosses back through the threshold, the resistance is stronger this time, like pushing through a curtain of cold honey. The alley beyond is darker than it should be, the gas lamps burning low and blue.

The leaves here have arranged themselves into the final measures of something. The notation is incomplete, gaps where notes should be, but the pattern is clear enough. Third movement. The missing section the girl keeps talking about. But the leaves shift and scatter before Helen can make full sense of them, rearranging into different configurations like they’re trying to remember.

Back in the backstage area, Jakem’s declaration about warming up the crowd causes an immediate response. The mirrors ripple. The frozen audience members turn their heads in unison, all eyes fixing on him. Their expressions don’t change. They just… watch. Wait.

The girl’s voice comes again, closer now, still maintaining that four-beat rhythm: “There can’t be an opening act. This is Carnegie Hall. This is my debut. I practiced for three years. Every day. Four hours minimum. Mother said I had to be perfect–“

She appears at the end of the backstage corridor, more solid now. Twelve years old, in a white performance dress that would have been fashionable in 1923. Her violin is tucked under her chin but she’s not playing. Her bow hand trembles. Dark circles under her eyes suggest she hasn’t slept in days. When she sees Mercy and Jakem, confusion flickers across her face.

“Who are you? You’re not supposed to be backstage. Only performers. Are you performers? Do you know measures forty-seven through sixty-three?“

The pristine violin in the open case near them begins to hum, a single sustained note with no one touching it.

Outside, Helen notices something else: scratched into the brick wall beside the door are words in a child’s handwriting, repeated over and over: “I can’t remember I can’t remember I can’t remember“

Jakem nods to the girl “Measures forty-seven sixty-three, not a problem.” he says with a cocksure confidence of one so used to the stage he’s forgotten how to be afraid. He looks to Mercy “You catch that?” he asks before turning to face the audience. He calls back to Helen “I’ll stall ’em, you find this girl’s music.” And he struts forward, with no training in classical music whatsoever he seems unphased.

“Ladies and gentleman…” the man’s robust voice, long used to the stage bellows through the hall. “Carnegie presents the first ever opening act, in honor of your wondrous selves; Never before has anyone in these esteemed halls enjoyed an opening, but let that all end tonight as we present to you the first phase of our newly structured show!”

Mercy quickly stows her crossbow away, back in its hooks on the sling that has since become a sash. Only in a warped reality could she ever be dressed so finely. She shoots Jakem a furrowed-brow look but nods. “Ayeah, got that. I think. I’ll try an’ ah.. assist Helen then.” With that she heads for the direction the other woman had went, telling the young girl along the way, “I’m jus’ a stagehand, miss! Ain’ mind me!” and dusts off a nearby surface with her hand for emphasis.

Helen watches the leaves, that final measure of something. She tries to lift her phone to capture some images of it, but the movement from it all might make it difficult. She steps outside, looking towards the scratched marks on the wall nearby, the brick, and says, “It is all over the place!” She continues to move outside though phone raised, seeing if the leaves or notes come back at all.

some of the leaves are darker than others. Crimson among the amber. If you only looked at the crimson ones, ignored the amber, the notation becomes clearer. Incomplete, but clearer.

Back inside, the pristine violin’s hum grows louder. The note it’s producing is the same one that’s been repeating from deeper in the building. The same note Constance can’t seem to get right.

Jakem stands before those mirror-audiences, their collective attention a weight he can almost feel. They’re waiting for him to begin. To buy time. To stall.

The stage fright in the air thickens further, but somehow it doesn’t seem to touch him the same way it touches the others.

Jakem grins broadly, in his element, like he’s been a showman all his life… Or maybe longer than that. He stands boldly, his outfit billowing, his hair dancing subtly through magics long mastered to add an almost imperceptible dynamism to even a still standing position. His arms are wide, as if to display himself to the world. And then, on a whim, he begins to hum that same note that plays on the violin. Long drawn out, but then he starts to raise it upwards, as if building to something, advancing on the crowd with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

he takes the stage, flashing a grin to the crowd as he begins to sing, his booted foot starts thumping to the jaunty tune very much not in theme.

There once was a ship that put to sea
The name of the ship was theBillyO’ Tea
The windsblew up, her bow dipped down
Oblow, my bully boys, blow (Huh)

Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring us sugar and tea and rum
One day, when the tonguin’ is done
We’ll take our leave and go

She’d not been two weeks from shore
When down on her, a right whale bore
The captain called all hands and swore
He’d take that whale in tow (Huh)

Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring sugar and ta and rum
One day, when the tonguin’ is don
We’ll take our leave and go

Before the boat had hit the water
The whale’s tail came up and caught her
All hands to the side, harpooned and fought her
When she dived down low (Huh)

Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring us sugar and tea and rum
One day, when the tonguin’ is done
We’ll take our leave and go

No line was cut, no whale was freed
The Captain’s mind was not of greed
And he belonged to the whaleman’s creed
She took that ship in tow (Huh!)

Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring us sugar and tea and rum
One day, when the tonguin’ is done
We’ll take our leave and go

For forty days, or even more
The line went slack, then tight once more
All boats were lost, there were only four
But still that whale did go (Huh)

Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring us sugar and tea and rum
One day, when the tonguin’ is done
We’ll take our leave and go

As far as I’ve heard, the fight’s still on
The line’s not cut and the whale’s not gone
The Wellerman makes his regular call
To encourage the Captain, crew, and all (Huh)

Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring us sugar and tea and rum
One day, when the tonguin’ is done
We’ll take our leave and go

Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring us sugar and tea and rum
One day, when the tonguin’ is done
We’ll take our leave and go

The leaves that are darker in color seem to attract Helen’s attention and she says to Mercy, “Try stepping on the crimson ones? Maybe we can hold them in place, crossbow bolts, even?” She wonders, grinning with a little chaotic look on her face while Jakem entertains the masses.

33 PM. 3:47 AM. 9:12 PM. But in the moments between the time changes, she catches it: the crimson leaves form measures 47 through 63. The pattern is complex, full of double stops and position changes that would challenge even an accomplished violinist. No wonder a twelve-year-old couldn’t remember it all.

The scratched words on the brick seem to pulse: “I can’t remember I can’t remember I can’t remember“

Mercy, following Helen outside, sees something else. In the early evening version of the alley , there’s a figure. A man, late twenties, disheveled, sitting against the wall with sheets of music paper scattered around him. He’s translucent like Constance, but different. More recent. He’s muttering to himself: “Just finish it. Just finish what she started. Centennial Lament. Has to be perfect. Has to be–“

Back inside, Jakem’s sea shanty continues to create those reality-ripples. The stage fright in the air lessens slightly, pushed back by the sheer audacity of the performance. The mirrors show the audiences beginning to shift, just slightly, their frozen poses cracking at the edges.

Constance lowers her violin, staring at Jakem with wide eyes. “You’re not afraid at all, are you?“

a descending arpeggio, then a trill, then something that looks like it should resolve but doesn’t. The final notes are missing. The leaves keep trying to fill them in, but each time they arrange themselves differently, as if the dream itself can’t remember how the piece was supposed to end.

Back inside, the stage fright in the air begins to thin slightly. Jakem’s absolute confidence, his complete lack of proper performance anxiety, is acting like a pressure valve.

Constance takes a step toward him, violin still under her chin. “You’re not afraid at all. How are you not afraid? Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s waiting for you to make a mistake.“

The mirrors ripple again. In some of them, the frozen audience members have begun to fade slightly, becoming less solid.

Mercy can’t help but stop dead when Jakem starts serenading the fine lords and ladies of the audience with a sea shanty. She is shook. A glance is thrown between him and Helen but the former seems to have this handled for the moment, so she obliges the latter’s request and heads over- then stops again and points out the young man having some manner of crisis nearby. “Ain’ those music sheets all ’round that guy? He look like he tweakin’ out on somethin’ harsh but maybe he can help you get it figured out. Or we jus’ take his papers.”

There are missing parts and pieces, but Helen is trying to put it together as best she can before hearing Mercy and saying, “Maybe they are all over and have pieces everywhere?” She looks back towards Jakem and Constance, “Or maybe she just needs to know being a kid and fucking up is alright… maybe Jakem being brave is enough?”

As he finishes, Jakem grins down at the girl, a sparkle in his green eyes as he moves to lay a hand on the ethereal shoulder “Ever mistake is an opportunity for creativity. Keep them on their toes, make them wonder, is it an apple core or a rose, let no one come away from this with clear and perfect vision of what you have wrought, for it will be something even you yourself could not predict.” he advises her. But there’s something more in his touch, a blessing delivered to the girl, something that augments her artistic abilities… But only sometimes. It’s unreliable, an act of blessed chaos.

“Centennial Lament – Completion of C. Whitmore’s Unfinished Third Movement by Marcus Webb.“

The man looks up at her with haunted eyes. “I can’t finish it. I thought I could. I thought if I just worked hard enough, if I was just good enough… but I’m not her. I’m not Constance. I’m just… I’m just someone who’s always late, always behind, always not quite–“

His words are metronomic too. He’s been caught in her dream.

Helen’s phone suddenly stabilizes, showing a single time: 11:33 PM. October 27th. Exactly one hundred years to the minute since Constance Whitmore collapsed on stage at Carnegie Hall.

The three versions of the alley begin to converge, the different times bleeding together.

Mercy is pretty dense at the best of times, but even she snaps to realization as dots finally connect. Her eyes hone in on the haunted young man who seems to have inherited this tragedy of the unfinished movement. “Constance..? Is C. Whitmore- aw hell this kinda makin’ more sense now.” She glances back to Helen with a slight frown, hoping Jakem is having better luck inside in somehow changing the course of this nightmare and preventing history from repeating itself.

Helen has put together at least some of the music, perhaps able to use her phone to display it for the performer, but it might not make any sense being digital to her and isn’t in any real format. She sighs out softly now, looking to the time, raising her brow, “The time has settled… it seems like it is maybe an hour from now?” She steps back with Mercy, towards the doorway, “I don’t know if we can get everything for her, maybe those papers are enough?”

33 PM.

33 PM everywhere now.

Constance looks at her violin, then at the audience in the mirrors. They’re fading faster now, becoming transparent. She raises her bow.

“I’m going to play it wrong,” she says, and there’s wonder in her voice instead of terror. “I’m going to play it my way. The way I would have if I hadn’t been so scared.“

The stage fright in the air shatters like glass.

Jakem turns back to the audience, perhaps sensing that the others have made progress, or perhaps this is what he would have done anyways “You’ve been a wonderful audience my friends, for me, and for the girl about to perform before you.” he belows in his showman’s baritone. He grins down at someone, and does a bow, deep and reverential, before gesturing for the stage “do it the best version of wrong that has ever been played, my dear.” he says.

Jakem turns back to the audience, perhaps sensing that the others have made progress, or perhaps this is what he would have done anyways “You’ve been a wonderful audience my friends, for me, and for the girl about to perform before you.” he belows in his showman’s baritone. He grins down at Constance, and does a bow, deep and reverential, before gesturing for the stage “do it the best version of wrong that has ever been played, my dear.” he says.

moves to collect the papers, a wary eye on the man in case he feels a sort of way about that, but her keen ears pick up on Constance’s statement from inside. Her gaze snaps to Helen and she beckons the woman to come along as she starts to hurry back in- seems all the girl needed was support, in the end, and Mercy intends to at least be on standby if background dancers are called for in what seems to be a re-imagining of the fateful performance.

Helen starts to walk back inside with Mercy and Jakem, moving up towards them both to now watch Jakem give the girl the support she needed all along.

34 PM. October 27th.

One minute past the centennial.

The air smells only of autumn and the faint sweetness of night-blooming flowers.