The rain that morning was silver. Not clear, not gray — silver, as if the sky had melted its sorrow. Each droplet seemed to hang in the air a moment longer, catching the faint glimmer of a world that had almost forgotten light. Lyra stood beneath the hollow bridge, hand lifted, letting the rain slide down her skin, tracing tiny, icy paths. Every sound in the city felt sharpened, almost painful — the hiss of water against metal and stone cutting through the silence like a whispered secret.
Since childhood, the world had been quiet; not peaceful — empty. The streets echoed only with the slow pulse of machines and footsteps of the few who survived the monotony. The Monochrome City was a labyrinth of gray — buildings stacked like bones, windows staring blankly, and life moving like a heartbeat too faint to be noticed. Laughter had become a myth; color, a memory spoken only in forbidden whispers.
But beneath the hiss of rain, Lyra heard it again: that pulse, that hum that did not belong to machines.
At first, it was subtle, a vibration she felt in her chest, like the faint tuning of a long-forgotten instrument. Her pulse synced with it, tiny tremors spreading from her fingertips to her spine. Lyra pressed her palm against the slick stone of the bridge. The wall beneath her hand shivered alive for a heartbeat — and whispered. A tone low and fractured, brushing against her ears like a secret barely allowed to exist.
"Do you hear it too?"
The voice wasn't hers. It was layered, almost intangible, carrying something beyond language. Lyra's eyes darted to the tunnel's mouth. A shadow emerged, coat frayed at the edges, rain sizzling wherever it touched him. His eyes burned faintly crimson a color that should not exist, a fire in the monotone city. With every step, the air itself seemed to ripple, vibrating with echoes that brushed against her skin like warm threads of sound.
Lyra froze. "Who are you?"
"Someone who remembers what fire sounds like," he said. His voice carried a warmth she hadn't felt in years, a resonance that made her bones hum.
Sparks danced along his fingertips — ghostly embers painting the wet stones in fading red light. Each flicker did not burn her skin but pressed on her memory, awakening sensations she had long forgotten: the weight of a heartbeat, the thrill of possibility, the ache of something lost.
Her chest tightened. Her breath hitched. "Why… why now?" she whispered.
"You shouldn't be able to hear it," the man murmured. "Not anymore. And yet… you do."
Lyra's mind raced. She had tried to ignore the pulses for weeks, chalking them up to imagination or exhaustion. But the resonance was real, alive, wrapping around her chest, urging her to feel. She bent closer to the cold stone, fingertips tracing invisible waves in the air. The silver rain shimmered faintly crimson, as though reflecting a secret only she was permitted to see.
"I don't understand…" she murmured. "What is this?"
The shadow smiled faintly, dangerous and impossibly sad. "A hue forbidden. A song the city has tried to silence. And now, it's choosing you."
Lyra shivered, not from cold but from anticipation. She had never felt such intensity, such raw energy saturating the air. The city, usually oppressive in its monotony, felt alive — as if it waited, breathing through her, through the pulse, through the rain itself.
"Learn what it costs," he added, stepping back into the shadows, letting the crimson mist curl around him like a cloak.
She wanted to reach for him, but her fingers met only empty air. A tingling sensation lingered, a reminder of the contact — the echo of a forbidden hue brushing against her skin. Her notebook called to her, and she sank to her knees, scribbling frantically: shapes, lines, spirals of color she couldn't name but could feel, the rhythm of resonance pressing into her chest.
The hum swelled and receded, a tide that left her trembling. Each drop of rain seemed heavier now, each shadow a story. Lyra realized the city had shifted — imperceptibly, impossibly. And in that subtle change, she understood: she had been chosen. Not for comfort. Not for safety. But to feel. To remember. To awaken the world long dead.
Above, the rain softened, silver turning faintly crimson as the shadow disappeared. She closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the forbidden hue seep into her bones. The hum, the warmth, the impossible light — it pulsed through her, a promise, a warning. Somewhere, deep in the veins of the city, a memory stirred. Something old and powerful. Something waiting.
Lyra inhaled sharply, letting the chill of rain mingle with the fire inside her chest. Her pulse answered the rhythm she barely understood. And then, as if whispered directly into her soul, a name emerged — carried on the echoes of color and danger:
Draven Veyl. The Crimson Memory.
And with that, Lyra Solen, the girl who had never seen color, felt the world awaken beneath her feet. The Monochrome City had cracked, and through that fracture, something vibrant and untamed bled back into existence. Tonight, she had touched it. Tomorrow, she would chase it.