Chapter 26: Echoes of London

In the weeks following Olivia's casting, a new, quieter rhythm settled over Alex's life. With Olivia now absorbed by the all-consuming machinery of a Disney television show, a space opened up—a space filled with late-night phone calls across time zones, where he'd help her run lines and she'd remind him to eat a real meal. The frenetic energy that had defined his comeback with "Love Yourself" gave way to a more introspective mood, a desire to create something that reflected the profound changes he'd undergone.

This new emotional state led him to a specific, monumental file in the Codex. A song so iconic in his own timeline, he'd considered it almost untouchable. The song was "Hello," by Adele. In his timeline, it had been a global behemoth, a thermonuclear event of a single. But Alex wasn't interested in replicating its power; he was drawn to its pain. He wanted to unearth the quiet apology buried beneath the roar.

He approached the recording not as a producer aiming for a hit, but as an artist attempting a portrait. He cleared his studio, dimmed the lights until only the grand piano was cast in a soft, golden glow, and banished all thoughts of charts and metrics. He spent an entire day just with the instrument, working through the chord progression, finding voicings that felt less like pronouncements and more like questions, letting the melancholy chords hang in the air.

He sang the lead vocal in a single, unedited take late that night. He didn't belt the iconic chorus; he let his voice crack on the high notes, a deliberate imperfection that laid his own emotional exhaustion bare. It wasn't a call to an old lover; in Alex's interpretation, it was a call to a past version of himself—the boy who had collapsed on stage, the producer who had pushed too hard, the ghost from another timeline trying to make sense of the life he was now leading.

"Hello from the other side… I must've called a thousand times… To tell you I'm sorry, for everything that I've done… But when I call you never seem to be home."

The final mix was stark and haunting: just his voice, the piano, and a subtle, swelling string section he arranged himself, so faint it sounded more like a memory of an orchestra than a real one. It was the musical equivalent of watching rain streak down a windowpane.

The release of "Hello" landed like a meteor striking a silent lake. It soared to number one globally on a wave of raw emotion. It became the soundtrack for apologies, for long-overdue phone calls, for quiet moments of introspection. It was the perfect overture for what came next.

The "European Introduction Tour" was Echo Chamber's victory lap: five sold-out shows in five iconic venues—Paris, Berlin, Amsterdam, Rome, and culminating in London's prestigious Royal Albert Hall. It was more than a string of concerts; it was a declaration. Alex Vance wasn't just a rising star—he was the heartbeat of a new musical generation.

Each city brought a different flavor. In Paris, fans chanted his name before he even stepped on stage, waving handmade signs and tossing Polaroids of themselves with lyrics scribbled on the back. He opened with "Photograph", bathed in soft amber lights, the crowd singing every word back to him as if their memories had been stitched into the verses.

In Berlin, the setlist shifted darker and more intimate. He stripped down "The Scientist" to just piano and voice, inviting the audience into the raw space he'd occupied while recording "Hello." When he sang "Nobody said it was easy… No one ever said it would be this hard…," the entire arena fell silent—every soul hanging on the ache in his voice. Phones weren't raised; hands were over hearts.

Rome brought out his playful side. During "Just the Way You Are", he walked along the catwalk, pointing to fans and singing directly to them. One girl burst into tears. Another dropped her phone from sheer shock. "I'm singing this to you," he said with a wink, sending the entire section into a frenzy.

In Amsterdam, during "Counting Stars", the lights danced like constellations, and the floor literally shook from the stomping of feet. After the final chorus, the crowd refused to stop cheering. "You want one more?" he asked, laughing, sweat dripping down his face. "Alright, alright… this one's for the broken hearts," he said before launching into "Let Her Go," every note soaked in bittersweet beauty.

By the time he reached London, anticipation had reached a fever pitch. Fans camped outside the Royal Albert Hall for two nights. When he took the stage in his signature black button-down and worn boots, the room erupted like thunder. This was home turf. This was the crescendo.

On the afternoon of his Royal Albert Hall show, the weight of the hype became suffocating. He felt an overwhelming need to escape the five-star bubble. Pulling on a simple, dark beanie, sunglasses, and a nondescript jacket, he slipped out a side entrance, telling his security a believable lie about needing to buy a gift for his mother. "Give me one hour," he pleaded. "Just one hour to be a person."

He wandered through the bustling streets, eventually drawn by the magnetic pull of Covent Garden. It was here, amidst the beautiful noise, that he heard it. A voice. Raw and raspy, it cut through the din of chatter and laughter. It was singing "Iris" by the Goo Goo Dolls, a song so overplayed in his original timeline it had become a karaoke cliché. But this voice… this voice made it sound like a hymn for the broken-hearted. It stripped away the 90s rock schmaltz and found the desperate, soulful prayer at its core.

Alex followed the sound to a corner of the Piazza, where a small crowd had gathered. On a small, worn rug sat a young man, probably a few years older than Alex's physical sixteen. He was lanky, with a mop of unruly brown curls and a galaxy of amateurish-looking tattoos peeking out from the sleeves of his rolled-up flannel shirt. He strummed a battered acoustic guitar with a kind of contained fury, his eyes closed, completely lost in the performance. He wasn't just singing; he was bleeding the lyrics.

"And I'd give up forever to touch you… 'Cause I know that you feel me somehow… You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be… And I don't wanna go home right now."

Alex stood at the back of the crowd, completely captivated. He felt a familiar pull, the same instinct that had drawn him to Billie's whispers and Olivia's bright melodies. He didn't need the Codex to tell him he was looking at a star.

A few girls in the crowd noticed him. There were whispers. "Is that…?" "No way." Phones were raised discreetly. Alex, for once, didn't care. He was transfixed.

When the young man finished the song, the final chord hanging in the air like a held breath, there was a beat of pure silence before the crowd erupted in genuine, heartfelt applause. He opened his eyes—bright green and startlingly direct—and gave the crowd a crooked, disarming smile that seemed at odds with the profound sadness he'd just channeled. "Thanks for stoppin' by," he said, his voice a gravelly murmur with a strong Cheshire accent. "Every little bit helps." He gestured to the open guitar case at his feet, where a sparse collection of coins lay.

The performer, whose name Alex now knew from a scribbled sign was Harry, began his next song. As he played, he scanned the crowd, and his eyes briefly met Alex's. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. He seemed to half-recognize the quiet, intensely focused teenager in the beanie, faltering for a second on a chord before recovering, his focus returning to his music.

As the crowd began to thin, Alex moved forward. The few fans who knew who he was watched with bated breath, their phones now filming openly.

"That was amazing," Alex said, pulling off his sunglasses as he stopped a few feet from Harry's rug. "Seriously. One of the best live voices I've ever heard."

Harry looked up, and this time, with the sunglasses gone, the recognition was instant and absolute. His eyes widened, his hand freezing over his guitar strings. The apathetic busker cool evaporated, replaced by sheer shock. "You're… you're Alex Vance," he stammered.

"Yeah," Alex said with a small, friendly smile. "And you're incredible. You took a song I've heard a million times and made me feel like I was hearing it for the first time."

Harry just stared, completely thrown. Global superstar Alex Vance, who was playing a sold-out Royal Albert Hall in a few hours, was standing in front of him, critiquing his busking set. "I… uh… thanks, mate," he managed, running a hand through his hair. "Wow. Okay. This is… surreal."

"I was just walking by," Alex explained. "But I had to stop. The way you connect with a lyric… it's a rare gift. Are you with a label?"

Harry let out a short, incredulous laugh. "A label? Mate, I'm with whatever pavement will have me for the afternoon. This guitar case is my entire business model."

"That needs to change," Alex said with quiet authority. His focus was entirely on Harry, the murmuring fans and their phones fading into the background. "I run my own label. It's called Echo Chamber Records."

Harry's jaw tightened slightly. "Yeah, I know. That Billie Eilish girl, her stuff is mental. Dark. You… you wrote that spooky 'Video Games' track, right?"

"I did," Alex confirmed. "And I'm always looking for singular talents. Artists with a real point of view. You have that."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, black business card: "Alex Vance, Founder & Head of Production, Echo Chamber Records." He took a pen from his other pocket and scribbled his personal cell number on the back.

"Look, Harry," he said, handing him the card. "I'm not going to give you a big speech in the middle of Covent Garden. But I am serious. I think we could make some incredible, world-changing music together. My label is built to support artists like you. We don't try to make you fit a mold; we build the mold around you."

Harry took the card, his calloused fingers tracing the embossed logo. He looked from the card to Alex's earnest face, a whirlwind of disbelief, hope, and cynicism battling in his green eyes. "This is… legit?"

"It's legit," Alex assured him. "Enjoy the rest of your set. And call me when you're ready to trade this Piazza for a stadium."

Before the growing crowd could close in completely, Alex gave Harry a final nod and turned away. His security, alerted by the commotion, materialized and began clearing a path for him. He left Harry standing there under the fading London light, holding a small piece of cardboard that felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. From the stunned crowd, a fan who had just witnessed the entire, unbelievable exchange, dropped a fifty-pound note into the guitar case. Harry didn't even notice. He just stared at the card, then in the direction Alex had disappeared, a look of pure, unadulterated shock on his face.

He opened with "Love Yourself", the song that reignited his career. But it was during "Thinking Out Loud" that the room changed. Couples swayed in the balconies, strangers locked eyes, and some held up photos of loved ones who had passed. Alex noticed it all—and during the final chorus, his voice cracked. Not from exhaustion, but from gratitude.

Later, mid-show, he surprised everyone by performing "Shape of You" for the first time ever. It was a bombastic, dance-fueled version unlike anything he'd done on the tour so far. The choreography was loose, improvised—but electric. He laughed mid-song as fans threw custom T-shirts onstage that read "Echo Fanatics," and at one point he dropped to his knees, letting the crowd sing the chorus while he grinned in disbelief.

Near the end, the arena went dark. A spotlight illuminated a grand piano. He sat down and began playing the gentle opening chords of "Perfect." A montage of tour memories played on the screen behind him—meet and greets, backstage silliness, soundchecks with Billie, quiet moments in hotel rooms. It felt like a farewell and a promise all at once.

When the song ended, the applause didn't stop for nearly five minutes. He looked out over the sea of faces, some of them crying, many singing along, all changed by what they had just experienced. "Thank you for letting me be myself," he said into the mic, voice trembling. "This tour saved me in ways I didn't even know I needed."

As he walked off stage, soaked in sweat and emotion, the roar of the crowd echoing through the hall, Alex realized something: he had once begged for an audience. Now, he had a family.