Chapter 1
The Immortal Nightingale
Nightingale hopped from foot to foot, his fists poised and ready. He struck the punching bag as sweat flew off his toned body. The enthralling music played in his mind through his earpieces. Planting his feet firmly, he punched the bag one more time, sending it crashing into the wall.
“Whew, what do you think, Lin?” he gasped harshly, turning to face the polished violin in the corner of the room. The instrument ignored him. Night sighed. “I know, I’m getting stronger. Right?” he said, flexing his biceps.
Silence.
The burly man rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so flustered. Sheesh.”
Nightingale picked up the violin and headed toward another room. Whistling the rhythm of Swan Lake, he walked down the hallway, ignoring the picture of a famed and prestigious family. This wasn't his house. He stepped into the shower, washing away the sweat, grime, and hopefully, tears.
Nightingale looked at himself in the mirror, adjusting his tailcoat. He wrapped his daughter's blood-red scarf around his neck, complementing his attire. He gazed at the clock, which read 7:30 AM.
“Thirty more minutes. Let’s go, Lin.”
He put on his wedding ring, secured his violin in her case, and left the mansion.
The lone truck hovered through the empty streets. Nightingale sighed as the warm sun kissed his dark skin. “What a beautiful day, right Lin?”
He drove past a school on Monday morning. Empty. He drove past a federal hospital. Empty. He drove past restaurants. Empty. Nightingale was the last man on Earth.
“We’re almost there,” he whispered.
The car came to a stop outside a radio station. His chest heaved as he took in the crisp summer air. “Alright, time for work,” he smirked.
Nightingale sat comfortably in the radio room. With headphones snug on his head and Lin in his arms, he prepared for the day's routine. He turned on a muted video of a ballerina dancing. Nightingale played Swan Lake; the mesmerizing tune filled the room. The enthralling sound was funneled into the radio and broadcasted worldwide.
Nightingale hoped that someone… anyone would find this tune and respond to it. This had been his ritual for five years straight, ever since mankind vanished from the face of the Earth.
The ballerina on the screen had her fluffy hair tied in a bun, her chocolate skin glittering like gold. She moved with the grace of a gazelle, obviously passionate about her craft. Night was also passionate about his. His body moved in sync as he continued playing the subtle yet enchanting melody.
When he was done, both he and the ballerina bowed. He looked up at the paused screen, tracing his fingers over her cheek. “That’s my baby girl,” he whispered as he blinked away his tears. He finished the remaining technical part of his search, grabbed Lin, and headed home for the day.
Nightingale stretched as he got out of his car. He gazed up at the large lake in front of him. “Beautiful,” the man sighed. A flock of ducks swam and sparred in the serene body of water. Night spotted a brown bear fishing at the other end of the lake.
Nightingale stripped and dove into the cool water. After his swim, he grilled a few freshwater fish beside the lake, whistling the tune from his performance earlier. He set a picnic blanket, placing wine glasses and ceramic ware. Night groaned as he took a bite out of the sandwich he had made with the grilled fish.
He looked at his violin. “I know you’re vegan… but you have to try this. It’s to die for.”
No response.
Night continued his meal in silence. Then, he fiddled with his radio, tuning from one station to another. All he heard was static. This was a routine to him—so much so that he almost missed it when the radio played a different sound.
His brows lowered. “Huh?”
Carefully, Nightingale reversed the stations, searching for the strange sound. When he found it, his eyes widened. The station was playing the Swan Lake tune. But it wasn't his violin. It was a human whistling.
“Jesus Christ.”
Nightingale dashed toward his car. He fished out a few gadgets, a digital compass, and a GPS. He cross-sectioned the frequency, looking for its source. After some time, Night grabbed his head with a wide grin. “I found it.”
The car sped through the empty streets. Nightingale was bubbly throughout the ride. He glanced at his violin. “Our work has paid off. We found someone.”
After a few hours, Nightingale arrived at an abandoned mine, the vast chasm opening like the maw of an eldritch god. He searched through the large landscape, after a few hours, he found the source of the sound. A lone radio clung to life as it played Swan Lake. Unlike his own, this radio was in disrepair, playing the tune in a haunting, almost ghostly way.
Nightingale’s brows lowered. He searched around the chasm looking for life. Night looked at the device in his hand. It read that the only human life for miles… was his.
Nightingale slowly trudged back toward the source of the sound, his face darker than night. He stared at the device as it continued to loop his tune, albeit more sinister and eerie. Nightingale sucked in the air as if he couldn't get enough. His heart rate picked up. He glared at the radio.
Nightingale brought his violin out from the case strapped to his back. Cradling it like a baby, he traced the instrument gently. His serene face twisted into a pained grin. He held the violin by the neck and smashed it into the radio. The strings snapped and the radio’s distorted tune funneled through the chasm, sounding like a wailing cry.
“Ghaaaa!” Nightingale smashed the radio over and over and over again. Tears streamed down his wrinkled face. “Whyyyy!”
Nightingale sat in the dirt and mud, heaving like he had just run the Olympics. He pulled off his daughter’s red scarf. He pressed the fabric to his face and inhaled deeply. More tears ran down his face. “Why me?”
The Swan Lake melody continued to play loudly. Not on his violin, and not on the radio. It played in his head as his sanity slowly draining away.
The end
