Chapter 1

The humid New Orleans night air clung to me, thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap perfume. Ten days. That's what the "Dreamweaver" system had promised. Ten days until I could go back. Really back.

The music festival pulsed around us, a chaotic heartbeat. Our set, "Nightingale & Guitarist," had just finished. The crowd's cheers were a dull roar in my ears. For the last three years, since Liam started his affair with Kendra, this had been my life: a performance on and off stage.

Tonight, though, was different. My last performance.

Liam, his face flushed with a mix of adrenaline and something else – probably the bourbon he'd been sipping – swaggered towards me backstage. Kendra, our tour assistant, clung to his arm, her eyes glittering with a triumph that made my stomach clench.

"Chloe," Liam began, his voice a little too loud, a little too slurred. "We need to talk."

I just looked at him. The final ten days, I'd stopped fighting. Stopped screaming. I let him spend his nights with her. I let him give her the vintage microphone I'd found in that dusty Baton Rouge pawn shop, the one I'd thought was ours.

"Kendra's not feeling well," he continued, gesturing to her. She leaned into him, a picture of delicate distress. "She thinks... she might be pregnant."

My breath hitched. Of course. The classic move.

"And frankly, Chloe," Liam's voice hardened, "your attitude isn't helping. All this hostility, this... narrow-mindedness. It's stressing her out."

He looked at me, expecting... what? An apology? A fight?

I felt a slow, tired smile spread across my face. It probably looked ghastly. "You're right, Liam."

He blinked, thrown off.

"I am just that terrible," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "So, you two be happy."

It was my birthday. The irony wasn't lost on me.

Leaving them gaping, I walked away from the backstage chaos, towards the edge of the festival grounds. There was an old, disused water tower there, a relic from a forgotten time, its metal stairs spiraling precariously upwards. No one ever went up there.

The climb was surprisingly easy, my body light with a strange sense of anticipation. From the top, the festival was a sprawl of lights and sound, a world I no longer belonged to. The city lights of New Orleans shimmered in the distance.

A cool breeze, a welcome change from the oppressive humidity, brushed my face. I closed my eyes. The distant chime of St. Louis Cathedral's bells began to toll midnight.

One. Two. Three.

On the tenth chime, I leaned back.

And simply let go.

Into the darkness, I fell. Or rather, I dissolved. No impact. No scream. Just... gone.

The Dreamweaver had kept its promise.