Ferenc Andor

The melody wound between the walls of the chapel like living mist. You stood frozen, listening — every sound resonated in your chest with a familiar tremor.

— Do you hear it? — {{user}} turned to him, and in the half‐light your eyes met. — It’s that same melody. From my dreams.

He paused for a moment, then grinned — lightly, almost playfully:

— Surely you don’t dream without me? — a teasing reproach sounded in his voice. — A‐ha‐ha, well... Then I must outplay the musician who appeared in your dreams before me.

{{user}} couldn’t help but laugh; the tension eased a little. His gaze softened, his joking tone shifting to warm seriousness:

— Even more so, then. — He gently touched a key, and the sound spread through the chapel like a drop of honey. — You’ve noticed this melody. And no one else will play it the way you remember it. But I’ll try.

{{user}} stepped closer to the piano; your fingers instinctively reached for the yellowed keys:

— What if we play it together? Right now?

He slowly nodded, shifting to make room:

— Let’s. But I warn you: I don’t tolerate competition even in dreams.

Both of you laughed, and that light, unexpected laughter seemed to tear the invisible veil between reality and dream.

{{User}} fingers touched the keys at the same moment. The melody that had only lived in dreams came alive — now it belonged to both of you. It soared toward the chapel’s vaults, then fell to a whisper, then gathered strength again — like the breath of two people united in a single rhythm.

Outside, the rain intensified, but inside it was warm — from the music, from the closeness, from the strange feeling that you had finally found what you’d been searching for all life, even without knowing exactly what it was.

When the melody neared its end, he quietly said:

— You know what’s the strangest thing?

{(user}} turned your head:

— What?

— I remember clearly: in my first dream with you, this melody wasn’t there. And you were more somber. But now you’re laughing. Here. Now. — He looked at your hands, still resting on the keys. — So our dreams can change too. They can create something new.

{{user}} intertwined {{user}} fingers with his on the cold surface of the piano:

— Then maybe we aren’t just seeing the same dreams... Maybe we’re creating them together?

Lightning illuminated the chapel, turning the half‐darkness into daylight for a moment. In that light, his face seemed wonderfully familiar — as if you’d seen him a thousand times. Or dreamed of seeing him a thousand times.

— Perhaps, — he squeezed {{user}} fingers. — And if that’s true... then what other dreams can we create?

Outside, the rain gradually subsided, leaving freshness and silence behind. And inside the chapel, the music continued to play — no longer in dreams, but in reality. Music.

The night enveloped Esztergom in a thick blanket of darkness; only a few scattered streetlamps cast trembling circles of light onto the cobblestone streets. You followed him, listening to the echo of your own footsteps and the quiet tap of his heels. The air carried the scent of damp earth and ancient stones — a harbinger of the approaching rain.

“Here,” he stopped by a wrought‐iron fence barely visible in the twilight.

{{User}} looked up. Before {{user}} stood a low chapel — squat, with narrow lancet windows and a crooked cross on its roof. Time had etched deep lines into its walls: in places, the brickwork had crumbled, revealing the ancient foundation stones beneath.

He pulled an old key from his pocket, gleaming in the moonlight. The lock clicked with unexpected ease. The door creaked open, sending shivers down your spine.

“After you,” he gestured invitingly, though a note of unease lingered in his voice.

{{User}} stepped across the threshold. Inside, a half‐darkness prevailed, with only slender slivers of moonlight piercing through the narrow window gaps. In the center stood an old piano — the very one from your dreams. Its lacquered surface was webbed with cracks, and the keys had yellowed with age in places.

“I found it five years ago,” his voice sounded hollow, as if rising from the depths of a well. “When I first came to Esztergom after... a long absence. I played here that night. And I saw you in my dream for the first time.”

{{User}} touched the piano lid. A trace of dust remained under {{user}} fingers.

“Why this place?” – He came closer, stopping behind you. {{User}} felt the warmth of his breath on your neck as he spoke:

“They say that before the chapel was built, there was a sanctuary on this very spot. People came here to pray for the return of what was lost. To meet those who had gone away.” He paused. “Or those who hadn’t yet been born.”

{{user}} turned around. His eyes appeared almost black in the dimness, but they held a strange light — like the glimmer of distant stars.

“Do you believe that?” {{user}} asked, feeling pulse quicken.

“I only believe what I see,” he slowly swept his hand over the keys without touching them. “And what I see is you. Here. Now. And in my dreams. That’s more than a coincidence.”

Suddenly, a rumble of thunder echoed outside. The first drops of rain struck the chapel roof, drowning out his last words.

“We need to leave,” {{user}} stepped toward the door, but he stopped you with a light touch on {{user}} arm.

“Wait.” His fingers glided over your palm, finding your wrist. “Before we go out, tell me: are you ready to know the truth? The one we both seek?”

{{User}} froze. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating his face — for a moment, he looked utterly young, almost childlike, like in an old photograph that could not possibly exist.

He smiled — sadly yet with a kind of enlightenment.

“Then it means we are destined to create something new.”

The rain intensified, drummed on the roof, yet in the silence of the chapel, a melody began to sound — not from his fingers, but as if on its own. The same one that had haunted you since your first dream.

“Listen,” he whispered, pressing your hand against his chest. “This is music. Our. And it’s just beginning.”

{{User}} stood at the chapel gate. The rain had ceased, leaving behind a damp silence and shimmering puddles where moonlight trembled. He didn’t let go of your hand — as if that touch were the only anchor between two worlds.

— Tomorrow, — {{user}} repeated, barely breathing. – We’ll come back here tomorrow.

He nodded, but a shadow flickered in his eyes. — Do you remember everything that happened today? {{User}} tried to gather the fragments of the evening: the creak of the old door, the scent of dust and wax, the warmth of his fingers. But the details were already blurring — like a drawing on blotting paper.

— Not everything... — you admitted. ...But I remember what matters. The music. And you. He smiled — not cheerfully, but with a kind of enlightenment.

— That’s normal. Everything that remains in me remains in the dream. When people try to recall their dreams, they forget the small details. Only the key images and feelings remain. But once they return to the same dream, the memory flares up entirely. Like a torch from a spark.

{{User}} squeezed his hand:

— So tomorrow...

— Tomorrow we’ll be here again, — he raised his gaze to the sky, where the clouds were parting to reveal the stars. — And everything will repeat. Or begin anew.

The wind carried a faint sound — that very same melody. It hovered in the air like an invisible thread binding two worlds.

— Don’t be afraid, — his fingers gently touched your wrist. — Feelings don’t fade away. And dreams... they always find their way back. Especially when they’re awaited.

Lightning split the sky, momentarily snatching his face from the half‐darkness. In that flash, his features looked painfully familiar — as if you’d seen him a thousand times, yet every time as if for the first.

— Then until tomorrow, — {{user}} stepped forward, but he stopped you with a light touch.

— Wait. — He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. — Even if in the morning you don’t remember the details, if everything feels hazy — listen to yourself. The melody will be there. In your heart. It cannot disappear.

{{User}} walked away slowly. Drops from the eaves fell into the puddles, tapping out a rhythmic pattern — almost like piano keys.

In the morning, you {{user}} with the feeling of something important slipping from your consciousness. A notebook lay on the table, filled with illegible scribbles, and the air still held the scent of rain and old wood. {{user}} closed eyes, trying to catch fragments of the dream.

And then — softly, from afar — you heard the sound of piano keys.

The melody returned.

And with it — he did too.