Shadows of the Stage

The next few days blurred together like rain on glass.

Back in the real world—or whatever version of it they were in—the five of them kept close. Sleep came in short, anxious intervals. They ate only when they remembered to. Their minds were heavy with the same images, looping again and again: Roxy trapped behind the mirror. The Watcher watching. The forest folding in on itself like a dying star.

Liam hadn't spoken much since that night in the studio. He carried Roxy's voice with him like a flame—flickering but bright, impossible to let go.

They stayed at Harry's flat now. It was the most secluded. The windows were thick, the walls soundproof. Something about being surrounded by old instruments gave them comfort, even if none of them could explain why.

The CD had changed again.

It now displayed two tracks.

Track 1: Begin to Remember.

Track 2: The Stage.

They sat cross-legged on the living room floor as Harry put the disc back in the player. Static again, then a hum, deeper than before—something theatrical, like the swelling overture of a show.

Then came screaming.

Not screams of terror—screams of joy.

Crowds. Thousands of voices shouting their names.

"LIAM!"

"HARRY!"

"LOUIS!"

"ZAYN!"

"NIAAAALLL!"

Then a single note from a guitar echoed, familiar and warm.

Harry's hands trembled on the volume dial.

"That's…" he whispered. "That's us. That's a concert. One of ours."

A voice came through the recording.

Not one of theirs.

A woman's voice.

Not Roxy.

"They gave you the world, and you forgot it."

"Why?" Louis asked aloud. "Why take this from us?"

The voice responded, almost like it heard him.

"Because the world broke you."

They froze.

The air in the room felt heavier.

"I gave you silence. Peace. The life you would've chosen, had you never been chosen first. I did you a kindness."

And then silence.

The track ended.

The disc ejected itself.

Zayn stared at the case, jaw tight. "She doesn't want us to remember. Because when we do… we'll want it back."

Niall nodded. "Our real lives."

"Our real selves," Harry added softly.

They sat there in silence until Louis stood abruptly. "We need to see it. The stage. If that's the next piece, we go find it."

Harry blinked. "You mean like… where we performed?"

"Exactly," Louis said. "We trace our steps. Rebuild what we've lost."

"I know where to start," Liam said, standing slowly. His voice was hoarse but steady. "The O2 Arena. London."

Zayn raised a brow. "You think there's a crack there?"

"I think there's a memory there. One strong enough to help us."

Harry nodded. "Then let's go."

—

The drive was tense, but focused. The city rolled past their windows, familiar but hollow—like a dream where the details were all just slightly off.

When they reached the arena, it loomed like a ghost. Empty. Quiet.

The gates were locked, but Zayn found a side entrance half open. They slipped inside, one by one, flashlights cutting through the darkness.

And then they found it.

The stage.

Still standing.

Still waiting.

The air smelled like dust and old soundboards.

But then—

One by one, the lights above began to flicker on.

Not theirs.

Not the building's.

Something else had turned them on.

Floodlights roared to life, bathing the stage in golden light.

And they remembered.

Their feet found old marks on the floor. Their hands reached for invisible microphones. Their bodies moved like muscle memory had waited in silence all this time.

Harry stepped forward first.

And he sang.

A single lyric.

"If I'm louder, would you see me?"

The others joined in, soft at first, then louder.

"Would you lay down in my arms and rescue me?"

Niall smiled, tears burning his eyes.

"'Cause we are who we are…"

Then the crowd roared.

But there was no one there.

It was the memory.

Flooding back.

Filling the space with what had been taken.

The illusion of the false world shattered for a moment, letting through truth.

Harry dropped to his knees, laughing and crying all at once. Zayn clutched his chest like the weight was both crushing and freeing.

Louis looked around wildly, blinking.

"We were legends," he whispered.

"We are legends," Liam said.

A soft crack echoed across the stage.

Behind them, a new mirror shimmered into existence near the back wall.

Smaller than the last.

Faint, as if fighting to stay open.

Zayn walked toward it slowly, hand outstretched.

But then—

A hand shot out.

Not his.

A long, glassy limb.

The Watcher.

It grabbed the edge of the frame and began to pull itself through.

"GO!" Liam shouted. "Back!"

But the Watcher stopped.

She didn't step through.

She just stared.

Then she spoke.

Her voice echoed through all their minds at once.

"You've found the stage. But you've forgotten the price of fame."

The lights above exploded.

Glass rained down like sparks.

The mirror shattered.

The Watcher vanished.

But in that final moment, they heard something else—quiet, behind her words.

A whisper.

Roxy's voice.

Just one word.

"Jenny."

Zayn's heart nearly stopped.

He turned to Liam. "She's trying to tell us something."

Niall was already grabbing the disc case from Harry's bag.

Track 3 had appeared.

Track 3: The Child.

And below that, scrawled in that same red ink:

"She's next."

Zayn didn't hesitate.

"Whatever we're doing," he said, "we do it fast. Jenny's not just part of our memory."

"She's family," Liam said quietly.

They stood together at the edge of the stage.

The echoes of their past still ringing in the rafters.

And for the first time since this began… they felt whole again.

Not complete.

But close.

Closer than they'd ever been.