Amadeus and the Sound of Shadows

More about Amadeus and the Sound of Shadows

The sound that tore through the alley was like a tear in a dream. Misty Tongue's saxophone breathed cold, whipping notes into the night, each one a dark veil that settled over the cobblestones. The fog that came with it wasn't made of water or air, but of memory—vanished dreams, swallowed screams, suppressed songs. Amadeus stood upright. The guitar in his paws suddenly weighed more—not physically, but spiritually. It vibrated with a deep note that wasn't played, but born. When Misty Tongue blew a second time, the shadows on the walls flickered like old photographs, faces slowly turning away. But then Amadeus turned up the voice of thunder. He played not a chord, but a memory: of shimmering hot tin roofs over summer alleys, of the trembling of the first note, of the patter of small paws on warm earth. And from that memory grew a sound, like sunlight running over cold water. The shadows hesitated. The fog hissed. Misttongue moved closer now, his coat swirling like ink in the wind. He raised the saxophone again, but this time the note wasn't smooth—it was split. As if Amadeus's sound had caused it to rip. The animals that had gathered around the two held their breath. The little kittens pressed against their mothers, a raven on the roof fluttered its wings excitedly. Even the wind didn't dare interfere. "You can't win, little one," Misttongue whispered in a raspy voice. "Music is only powerful as long as the world is listening." Amadeus didn't smile. He didn't speak either. Instead, he played. A simple run, soft as the belly of a newborn kitten, firm as a vow in the night. And each note cut a notch into what Misttongue was. For music was not a battle—but memory, echo, heart. Misttongue retreated. His saxophone began to groan, the fog curled around him. From his instrument, no longer did notes pour, but questions. And Amadeus, with his open sound, answered them. He played a chord that fell like light through frosted glass. A second that was like the first rain after a fire. And then came the third—the one that cannot be played, only felt. And in that moment, Misttongue's shadowy shell dissolved into a haze of wonder. Silence. A gust of wind swept away the last remnants of the fog. The saxophone lay on the ground, empty, old, silent. Amadeus took a step back. His fur was ruffled, his paws trembled. But the guitar hummed softly. Content. The animals did not cheer. Instead, they nodded—like witnesses to a miracle that must not be disturbed. The raven on the roof bowed. One of the little cats stepped forward and held out a leaf to Amadeus—golden yellow, folded like an origami heart. He took it. And as the sky over Klangstadt slowly brightened, Amadeus quietly walked away. His guitar on his back, a leaf in his pocket, and a new song in his heart. For he knew: The shadow was only the beginning.
Original Prompt by Yvain_de_Leonais https://deepdreamgenerator.com/ddream/p8ww9p0kqvx