Stella Monroe - POV
The man in the wool coat is going to die in four days, and he's staring right at me.
My bow keeps moving across the strings. Vivaldi's Winter echoes through Columbus Circle subway station, fighting against screeching trains and shuffling feet. Eleven PM in November, and I can't feel my fingers anymore.
The death song starts quiet. Four notes, low and wrong, playing underneath my melody. I know these warnings now. They crawl into my head and won't leave until someone dies.
This one belongs to the man near the platform edge. Expensive coat. Leather shoes that probably cost more than my rent. He hasn't moved in ten minutes.
I focus on the crumpled bills in my open violin case. Thirty-two dollars after six hours. Still short for the late fee when I show up with rent five days overdue. The Juilliard application might as well cost a million dollars.
The death song grows louder. It always does.
The man turns toward me. Station lights catch his face, and my bow scratches across the strings.
I know him.
Not personally. But there's a shoebox under my bed. My mother's shoebox, the one I found after she died. Full of photographs from a life she never talked about. This man's face is in one of them.
Marcus Rothschild. Music executive. Old money type.
He walks toward me, slow and steady. My hands keep playing even though everything inside me screams to run. The death song crashes through my skull, drowning out Vivaldi, drowning out everything.
"You play beautifully," he says. His voice is quiet, careful. "Your mother had the same gift."
I stop playing.
The silence hurts.
"You don't know my mother."
"Rebecca Monroe." He says her name like he's tasting something bitter. "I knew her quite well. Before she ran."
The violin neck digs into my palm. "You're wrong. I'm not who you think."
"No mistake, Miss Monroe." He reaches into his coat.
My breath stops.
He pulls out a cream envelope. Expensive paper, the wedding invitation kind. He drops it into my violin case, right on top of the bills.
"Your mother should have told you the truth. Now you'll learn it the hard way."
Then he's gone. Disappearing into the crowd of late-night commuters. The death song follows him, fading but not gone. Never gone.
Four days. Maybe five if he's lucky.
But luck has nothing to do with it. The death songs are never wrong.
I should pack up. Should go home. My hands won't move. I stare at the envelope like it might bite me.
Finally, I pick it up. Heavy. Real.
Inside, there's a letter on thick paper. Crimson Hall Conservatory letterhead, gold embossed.
"Full scholarship. All expenses paid. Report Monday at eight AM."
A handwritten note is clipped to it. Black ink, elegant script.
"Your mother's debt comes due. Report Monday, or we'll take what we're owed another way."
There's something else at the bottom. A photograph, old and faded at the edges.
My mother stands in front of a grand piano. She looks nineteen, maybe twenty. Young. Happy. She's wearing a black concert dress, and she's not alone.
Four teenagers stand with her. All formal clothes, all perfect posture. Rich kid confidence radiating from every one of them. They have their hands pressed together over the piano keys. All five palms meeting in the center.
Something dark stains the white keys underneath.
I flip the photo over. My mother's handwriting on the back, shaky and small.
"The binding. 1999. God help me."
I look closer at the piano keys.
That's blood.
My violin case snaps shut so hard it echoes. I don't remember closing it. Don't remember standing up. My legs carry me to the subway platform on autopilot.
The train ride to Brooklyn takes forever. I sit with the photograph in my lap, trying to understand what I'm seeing. My mother never talked about her past. Never mentioned music school or scholarships or anything before I was born.
When I asked, she'd get this look. Scared and sad mixed together.
"Some things are better left buried, baby. Trust me on that."
She died two years ago. Hit and run. Driver never found. She was walking home from her night shift cleaning concert halls when someone ran a red light.
But I heard her death song for a week before it happened. I tried to warn her. Begged her to stay home, to be careful, to please just listen to me.
She touched my cheek and smiled. "I know, Stella. I've been hearing it too."
My apartment building should have been condemned years ago. The radiator clanks, the windows don't seal, and my neighbors scream at each other every night. But the rent is almost manageable, and the landlord doesn't ask questions.
I drop my violin by the door. Spread the photograph on my kitchen table under the flickering lamp.
My mother looks so young. So alive. The four teenagers with her look like they walked out of some fancy catalog.
I grab my phone. Search for Crimson Hall Conservatory. My internet crawls, loading one pixel at a time.
"New York's premier music academy. Founded 1924. Legacy admissions only."
Pictures load. Marble hallways. Crystal chandeliers in practice rooms. Concert halls that look like churches. This is the kind of place where your last name matters more than your talent.
My phone buzzes.
News alert.
"Music executive Marcus Rothschild found dead in Manhattan office. Apparent heart attack. Age 62."
The phone slips. I catch it before it hits the floor.
Four days ago, the death song started. Right now, he's dead. Just like every other time. Just like my mother.
The phone buzzes again.
Text message. Unknown number.
"You heard it, didn't you?"
Ice runs through my veins. I stare at the screen. Three dots appear. Someone's typing.
"Come to Crimson Hall tonight. Old Concert Hall. Midnight."
Delete this. Block the number. Pack a bag and leave the city right now.
The dots appear again.
"Come alone, or more people you warn will die."
The phone goes numb in my hand.
Nobody knows about the death songs. Nobody except my mother, and she's been dead for two years. I never told anyone because who would believe me? I hear music that predicts death. Sure. That sounds completely sane.
But someone knows.
Someone is waiting.
I look at the photograph again. My mother's young face. Her bloody palm pressed against those keys. The note that said the debt comes due.
My mother ran from something. We moved every year when I was a kid. New apartment, new city, always looking over her shoulder. Always scared.
When I asked why, she said, "Some debts can't be paid, baby. Only passed on."
The clock on my microwave blinks. 11:47 PM.
Thirteen minutes to decide if I'm going to walk into whatever trap is waiting at Crimson Hall.
Thirteen minutes to figure out what debt my mother left me.
My phone buzzes one more time. Same unknown number.
"Tick tock, Stella. People are dying. You could have saved Marcus. How many more will you let die because you're afraid?"
My hands start shaking. Not from cold this time.
They know. They know I hear the death songs. They know I've never saved anyone. They know everything.
And if I don't go, more people will die.
I grab my coat.