9:00 p.m.
The central courtyard of the Altamira Higher Institute of Arts in Novadri still held the day's warmth. Lampposts cast oval pools of light on the grass, and beyond them the main building breathed with the quiet murmur of closing doors, rolling suitcases, and unhurried footsteps.
Albor Lian lay on his back, fingers interlaced behind his neck, letting his gaze drift into a deep blue sky that seemed endless. It looked like the sky on Old Earth, yes, but it wasn't the same; here on Aurea, everything had a faint, strange hue, as if someone had tilted reality a few degrees off its axis.
His academic bracelet buzzed once, and his name appeared again on the small screen: *Albor Lian — 2nd Year — Composition.* The name came with the body, as did the sentence that allowed no appeal: die before the age of twenty-two. He didn't need to close his eyes to see the number; once a figure embeds itself in your mind, it always finds a way to stand between you and the world.
Aurea had been free of wars for generations. The history books spoke of an ancient unification that had changed the course of the Mediterranean and, with it, the entire rhythm of history. But anyone could see without opening a book that art had become a competition followed by millions—music leagues, animation leagues, screenwriting, calligraphy; stadiums and auditoriums filled with cheering fans; late-night shows where stern-faced critics debated a harmony or a transition as if it were the World Cup.
Posters for competitions, film series, and residencies for young composers hung from the conservatory's façade. All that brilliance, which gave wings to others, cast shadows over him. However bright the landscape, the ticking clock inside him was louder than any ovation.
His mother restored old films in a small San Argos workshop, working with cotton gloves, the patience of a watchmaker, and tired eyes. Sometimes she came home smelling faintly of film stock and glue, sat in a wooden chair by the window, and stayed there in silence, as if stillness could cure exhaustion.
His older sister, who had given up a reserved master's program for his sake, digitized sheet music and cleaned up arrangements for municipal bands and parish choirs. She called it ant's work, but it paid the bills.
The youngest, fifteen, wanted to be an actor. He had joined a theater workshop, learning to breathe from the diaphragm, project his voice, and move without his feet sticking to the floor.
The first Albor Lian, the original owner of this body, had dreamed of singing. In his mind, the stage was still there: warm lights, a backing band, the dizzying hold of a note that refused to break… But the illness's last flare-up, brutal as a slammed door, had destroyed his vocal cords. It wasn't just that he couldn't reach the high notes—forcing his voice brought pain that climbed his throat and sealed his mouth shut.
He had traded the dream for composition because there was no other choice. At nineteen, he decided he'd had enough: a handful of pills, silence… and then, in a way he didn't fully understand and preferred not to examine, Albor had arrived.
He breathed in; the air smelled of freshly cut grass and warm soil. He had learned not to confront fear head-on—do that, and it grows; glance at it sideways, and it tires sooner. He let it be, like a chair left for a visitor who wouldn't stay long.
If he couldn't save himself, at least he could change the fate of his own: sell songs, write stories, do something useful with the time left. The problem was remembering—every time he tried to seize a melody or an idea from his other life, it slipped away like music from a dream, leaving only empty hands.
"So why bring me here, then?" he murmured.
The reply struck like a flash of clarity inside his head, a phrase spoken with an inhuman calm: *full analysis, 99.36% genetic match, ART-CORE protocol linked.*
No thunder, no light—just the certainty that something had been set in motion. The system's name conjured gears, a heart finally receiving current.
A simple list appeared before his eyes, like a half-filled form:
Age: 19 — Projected lifespan: 22
Painting: 0
Screenwriting: 0
Music – Composition: 0
Total Prestige: 0
He didn't need instructions. The system explained itself in one line: Prestige measures public recognition; reaching milestones unlocks medical treatment.
"Is there a cure?"
*Yes.* The voice was steady. *Each prestige milestone will grant a phase of treatment.*
He liked the bluntness of it—a one-clause contract with no fine print: work, and maybe live.
A discreet icon blinked: *Rookie Pack.* Inside was a single audio file. When he touched it, the melody and lyrics from another life unfolded in his mind as though someone had thrown open a window: "Color Esperanza"—direct, luminous, optimistic without excess, mid-range, familiar. Perfect for a voice that could sustain it. Not his—but maybe someone else's.
The thought leapt instantly to his brother: his hunger for the stage, the breathing drills from the workshop. He saw the whole scene—his brother singing at the end-of-year performance, their mother in the front row, his sister tapping the beat with her nails on her leg, himself in the shadows feeling that maybe not all was lost.
If he couldn't sing, he would compose for others. Produce. Write. He didn't have to be the face of the songs—he could be the scaffolding others climbed. There was pride in that too, a quiet pride that didn't demand the spotlight.
The first goal was clear: get "Color Esperanza"on a stage and win applause, even from a small corner of the world. Prestige wasn't a beautiful word, but it could buy time.
Across the campus bulletin board, student clubs had posted flyers for short-film contests, open-mic nights at the bar across the street, auditions for a university musical. He thought of convincing his mother to let his brother take the open-mic stage one night, and how the boy lit up when someone watched him perform.
Everything suddenly felt like a matter of ordering the steps: first, reserve a practice room to record a decent demo; then find a guitarist to accompany him; finally, upload the video to one of those platforms where every week an unknown became news thanks to the right song.
The system's voice didn't return, and it didn't need to. Once the deal was struck, it felt like carrying a folded paper in his pocket with a signature at the bottom. Not magic—at least not in the usual sense—more like a pact with himself. If you do this, you get that. If you fail, you can't complain.
He checked his phone: a message from his sister—*How's it going? I'll be late tonight, don't wait for me for dinner.*
He typed back: *I'm fine. Might have something to tell you later.* A small knot formed in his throat—the same one he'd had as a child when he wanted to show a drawing but feared it wouldn't be liked. Only now, what he wanted to show wasn't a piece of paper, but a decision: I'm going to try.
The courtyard was emptying. Some stayed to stretch the day to its limit, some needed a moment of silence before returning to noisy halls, some simply didn't want to go back yet to a dorm room with too many beds crammed into too little space.
The loudspeakers announced the campus would close at ten. That gave him an hour to find a free room. He climbed to the first floor by the worn marble stairs—the elevator took ages—and peeked down the rehearsal-hall corridor.
One room was occupied by a string trio; another, lit but empty, offered a clean silence that felt like an invitation. He went in, dropped his bag on a chair, turned on the desktop computer, and plugged in his headphones. As soon as the desktop appeared, he knew it wasn't the first time he'd done this—his fingers remembered the shortcut.
He didn't need much to make a demo: a metronome, a guide track, the song's known structure, and an arrangement tailored to the voice he imagined. Even without a singer, he could prepare something worthy.
He thought again of his brother. He knew him well: the boy would say he wasn't ready, that strangers made him nervous, that he'd prefer a month of practice before daring to perform. There were two ways to deal with that fear: the adult way—*"Don't worry, it'll pass"*—or this one: give him a small stage, the certainty that family would be in the front row, and permission to make mistakes.
If *Color Esperanza* was to be his first step, it had to be an honest height.
While the program loaded, the number returned to his mind: Projected lifespan: 22. Sometimes he saw it as a calendar with pages tearing away on their own, other times as a taut string that hummed whenever he thought too hard. He would get used to it, he told himself; the body adjusts to everything. What he didn't want was to turn it into an excuse.
If he started saying *"I can't because I'll die soon"*, death would win early. Better to think the opposite: *"Precisely because I'll die, I'm going to do this."*
He began mapping the song's structure on the old keyboard: simple intro, first verse, bridge, chorus. He wanted the arrangement to leave space for the voice, not crowd it. The strength of this song was how it landed in the listener's chest—it didn't need to be dressed in finery.
As he worked, his pulse steadied. An hour ago, each minute had been a blow; now each measure returned something he'd thought lost. Doing something concrete, however small, had an effect no speech had ever achieved.
He saved the project with a name that wouldn't embarrass him if someone saw it: *CE\_Arrangement\_1*. He copied the reference file to a folder and shut down. The hallway was quiet now. Twenty minutes to closing—enough to book the room for tomorrow evening.
Back in the courtyard, night had deepened; Novadri's lights drew a pale seam on the horizon. A picture came to him: his mother looking up from the seam of a film just before the frame broke, his sister clicking her tongue when a line of notes didn't fit, his brother striking a dramatic pose in front of the mirror.
That family, with their provisional fixes and patchwork solutions, was the reason. He didn't need a bigger word.
The system's voice stayed silent, but the quiet now had a different texture, as if within it was a shared breath. Not comfort, not company—just the possibility that every effort left some small, real sound in the world. You do something, and something answers, even if late, even if it hurts, even if the body is a room with burned-out bulbs—one lamp can still be lit.
"The clock is ticking," he said aloud, just to hear it outside his head, "but tonight my symphony begins."
It wasn't a promise to the wind or a rallying cry to feel strong, but a simple statement.
He picked up his bag, adjusted the strap, and crossed the courtyard. As he passed the C wing, the cleaning woman wished him goodnight without stopping her broom's arc. He returned the greeting, and, at the exit, thought that perhaps, with luck, the future would be exactly that: a gesture repeated patiently until it began to feel easy.
He closed his hand around the bracelet—not to check notifications, but to feel its light weight against his skin. There, without sound or light, was the agreement: work and live, create and live, beyond grand slogans and closer than fear.
The door shut behind him with a click that echoed too much in the empty vestibule. He took the stairs two at a time and, for the first time in a long while, felt he wasn't running from something—he was heading toward it.
Outside, the air was cooler. A group of students crossed the square, arguing over whether the last shot of a scene was good enough. To the right, a boy strummed a guitar and hummed wordlessly. Albor recognized the rhythm before the song emerged and smiled. Maybe tomorrow afternoon, when his brother came back from the workshop, he could show him the arrangement.
Maybe the boy would sing it softly, testing it, and someone in the hallway would stop to listen. Maybe. That was enough.
He walked toward the bus stop with a lighter step. He didn't know how much time he had, but he had stopped measuring it. From now on, he would count something else: attempts. Each attempt would be another brick in a wall that might, with luck, delay the collapse. It wasn't about winning big and fast, but about keeping the count going: a chord, a scene, a gesture.
Prestige, the system called it. Life, he called it.
When he reached his building, the street smelled of dinner. He climbed to the third floor and, before unlocking the door, heard voices: his brother rehearsing a scene, his mother telling him to turn it down, his sister asking if there was any bread left.
He smiled, stepped inside, took off his shoes, and dropped his bag in its usual place. He was tired, but it was a different kind of tired—the kind you feel when you've begun. And beginning, in a world that's always ending, was its own form of victory.