The Last Note

More about The Last Note

She was small, gray, and had one ear that bent strangely. In the alleys of Hamelin, they called her Crooks, and among all the rats that skulked through cellars and pantries, she was the quietest. Not the fastest, not the strongest. But she heard things. That's how she heard him first. It wasn't a melody you whistle when you're full. It wasn't a song. It was... a call. Like a warm beam of light through a dirty drain. Like the scent of grass in a stone cellar. A memory you never had, but immediately miss. Crooks crept under the door, scurried past a sleeping cat, and climbed over the legs of a baker's wife who dropped her bread in panic as the first swarms of rats moved through the streets. But Crooks didn't see the others. She saw only him. He wore a coat that fluttered in the wind like autumn leaves. His shoes were much too long and curled, his legs moved as if in a dance. He didn't look back. But the sound of his flute seemed to caress every shadow. The other rats walked as if they were being controlled remotely. Crooked... listened. And with every note, she felt lighter, braver. As if she were someone she had never been allowed to be. As if she were important. The flute player didn't walk fast. He strode. He didn't play notes. He wove dreams. The city was silent. No one dared to open the doors. Some peered out from behind curtains, their eyes wide open. Others covered their ears—but nothing helped. The sound was inside, not outside. It traveled through cracks, dreams, and heart valves. And Crooked followed. She didn't feel the cobblestones chafing her small paws. She didn't see other rats scurrying around her by the dozens, hundreds. She only heard the music—and she thought, for a tiny moment, that she understood the melody. It spoke of a place. Not of Hamelin. Not of decay and hunger. A place with grass that is never trampled. With light that dances in trails through trees. With silence that doesn't frighten. The rats followed him out. Away from the alleys. Toward the Weser, where the bank was steep. And he kept playing. Krümmchen was almost at the edge when the sound faltered. A brief moment. A missing note. Like a swallowed breath. She stopped. The flute player stepped over the water's edge. And one by one, the rats slid after him. Krümmchen stayed behind. Not because she wanted to. But because she felt that one note was missing. Just one. But it was Krümmchen who told her: "Not for you. Not yet." The last rat stood on a damp cobblestone, watched the coat disappear, heard the silence, and waited. Not for him. But for the day when she would dream the rest of the melody.