The TV screen flickered, displaying the national finals—the place I was supposed to be. My team, wearing the same jersey I used to wear with pride, was battling for the championship. My leg, wrapped in bandages, pulsed with a dull ache, a cruel reminder of why I wasn't there.
But I could see it—the gaps in their formation, the weaknesses forming under pressure. If I had been there, I could've filled them. I could've made a difference.
I watched as the score reached match point. The other team's ace leaped into the air, his body twisting midair before bringing his arm down in a devastating spike. The ball slammed into the floor. Whistle. Game over.
We lost.
But my frustration wasn't because they lost.
It was because I wasn't there to fill the gaps when they needed me.
The thought sent a wave of anger surging through me. My grip on the volleyball tightened. In one swift motion, I hurled it at the shelf where my trophies and medals sat—which was mocking me. The impact sent them toppling over, the golden proof of my victories clattering onto the floor.
None of them mattered anymore.
I wasn't the one blocking that spike, setting up the perfect shot, holding the team together in their moment of need.
How pathetic.
And then I looked up.
My jersey hung silently on the wall—"Leon / No.7" stitched across the back in bold white letters.
I couldn't bear to face it. Not when I wasn't on the court...Not when they were out there losing... and I was stuck here, doing nothing.
I exhaled sharply. The walls of my room felt suffocating. I needed air.
---
The morning air of Ravenford city was cool against my skin as I wandered through the quiet streets. My steps were slow, my leg still not fully healed, but I barely noticed. My mind was elsewhere.
Then, as if drawn by habit, I found myself in front of that store—the one nobody ever seemed to visit. The old shopkeeper sat behind the counter, as always, reading his newspaper like the outside world didn't exist. By his side, the black cat with piercing green eyes stared at me, unblinking, as if it knew something I didn't.
It always watched me.
Ignoring the eerie feeling creeping up my spine, I stepped inside and made my way to the familiar shelf. The final volume of *Resonance of her melody* rested there, waiting for me. I had followed this series for years. Now, it was time to see how it all ended.
I traced my fingers over the embossed title of the book—Resonance of her Melody.
A small, almost bitter smile tugged at my lips.
It was ironic, really. Romance? Drama? These weren't genres I cared for. I lived for volleyball, not fictional love stories. And yet, somehow, this novel had drawn me in. Maybe it was because of Eldoria—the fictional city where the story took place.
There was something about it that felt so real. I personally liked it because it felt nostalgic for some reason, and the details were too descriptive—I mean, there were so many things going on, with other side stories and all, like the author had created his own world.
I never imagined I'd get hooked on something like this.
But thinking back, it all started with that one conversation.
—
"Bro, why do you look so dead?"
Ryan's voice cut through the cafeteria noise as he sat across from Josh, who was slumped over the table like his soul had left his body.
Josh barely lifted his head, sighing heavily. "She broke up with me."
Ryan let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. "Damn, man. I feel you. My girlfriend broke up with me last year too. I totally get it."
For a moment, they just sat there, looking at each other in complete silence before nodding in unison. A silent agreement. Maybe an understanding. Or maybe... an acceptance of fate itself?
I watched them, utterly baffled. "I don't get why you're both acting like this. There are tons of other girls out there. Why get stuck on someone who left you for someone else?"
At my words, they both turned to look at each other again. Then, as if rehearsed, they let out a deep sigh.
"You wouldn't understand," Ryan said.
Josh nodded. "Yeah... You've never been in love."
I scoffed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Ryan smirked. "Tell me this—have you ever even talked to a girl for more than two minutes?"
I opened my mouth to argue. "Of course I—"
Then I stopped.
Memories flashed through my mind—brief conversations with classmates, polite small talk with the volleyball team's manager, the occasional 'thank you' to waitresses.
I mean, come on—I'm an introvert, and for my level, I think it was the best I could do.
...But yeah. None of them lasted more than two minutes.
Josh raised an eyebrow. "Well?"
I let out an awkward cough, looking away.
They sighed again.
—
That conversation stuck with me more than I wanted to admit. And before I knew it, I found myself trying to understand love the only way I could—through fiction.
Movies, novels, series—I went through them all, thinking they might give me some kind of insight. But the more I watched, the less it made sense.
Characters who barely knew each other would coincidentally find themselves in perfect situations to grow close. Every misunderstanding was conveniently resolved. Love confessions always happened at the exact right moment. It all felt too smooth, too scripted—like the universe itself was forcing them together.
And don't even get me started on love at first sight.
Sometimes, I laughed at how absurd it was. Other times, I was just confused.
By the time I had gone through enough stories, I reached my ultimate conclusion—
"Yep. I don't understand a damn thing."
At the end of the day, the only real way to understand love was to experience it myself by talking with girl I like.
But I had a goal—to play in tournaments and win nationals.
Love? That was a luxury I didn't have time for.
But I won't lie... the more I watched those stories, the more I realized how lonely my life was. And yeah, I was a little jealous.
Jealous of those main characters who just walked through life, and girls started gravitating toward them like they were born with gravity set to "romance mode."
Me? I couldn't even say I had one proper female friend. Sure, I talked with volleyball team managers, but those relationships were strictly professional. They had their own jobs to do. Talk when necessary. Stay in their own lanes. No more, no less.
There was no closeness. No warmth. Just... routine.
And the way those couples in stories trusted each other, held hands like the world couldn't shake them—even in so-called "Non-fictional" ones— felt like a fantasy.
Especially now.
Nowadays, relationships seem less about love and more about trends.
People date because everyone else is doing it. Because it looks good on social media. Because being alone feels like losing some game.
Meanwhile, one guy is dreaming up a future with the other—wedding plans, shared apartments, lazy Sundays.
And the other?
Already working on a breakup strategy. One that makes them the victim, and the other person just another fool who believed too hard in something too beautiful.
After the trend—sorry, dating—ends, they break up and move on. Some guys can't move on. Some girls never cared in the first place.
Love, at some point, started feeling like fictional thing. A rare occurrence, like seeing a shooting star twice from the same spot.
So, I put the thought away.
--
As I reached for the book, a small realization hit me.
This might actually be the first time my ship wins.
Emilia and the protagonist—it had been building up for volumes now. Hints, subtle moments, little details that made their relationship feel inevitable. The perfect setup.
A quiet chuckle escaped me.
I shook my head, pushing the thought away as I paid for the book and left the store. The shopkeeper barely glanced up from his newspaper, but the cat... those eerie green eyes followed me until I stepped out into the street.
---
Back in my room, I flipped open the book, the soft rustling of pages filling the silence.
As I was reading the book, a thought surfaced.
Whenever I read this around 7 PM, there's always that violin melody coming from somewhere.
It was faint, but unmistakable. A delicate, almost melancholic tune.
I had tried searching for the source a few times—checked the neighboring apartments, walked around the block—but I never found anyone playing.
Maybe the novel's musical descriptions were just that vivid, so much so that my mind started playing the melody on its own.
Yeah...that had to be it.
My heart raced as I reached the final chapters. The heroine, after all the struggles, was finally with the protagonist. My ship was winning.
I reached for my phone, dialing my friend.
"Dude, my ship is actually gonna win! She's almost with him—"
I turned the page.
A truck. Out of nowhere. Crashed into her.
She died.
The phone nearly slipped from my hands.
"What...?" My voice came out in a whisper.
My friend picked up. "Yo?"
"...Did you read the latest volume?"
Silence. Then, a laugh.
"Judging by your voice, you saw her death scene, huh? So what do you think of this ending, Mr. Leon?"
I clenched my fists. "This... This is bullshit! The story was structured so well, but this ending ruined everything! She didn't deserve that!"
"Yeah, I hear ya," he replied casually, like we were talking about the weather. "But I think Emilia didn't have any real chemistry with the protagonist. Everything felt kinda forced, you know? His childhood friend had a way more meaningful connection with him, so honestly... I'm kind of satisfied with this ending."
"...You're satisfied with Emilia getting hit by a truck?" I asked.
I heard him stifle another laugh.
"Why are you laughing?" I couldn't help but ask him.
"Dude, someone already made a meme about it. Apparently, people are saying she got isekai'd."
I could practically hear the smugness in his voice.
I hung up.
Anger simmered within me. How could they write such a beautiful story... only to destroy it with an ending like this?
Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
Frustrated, I tossed the book onto my desk and collapsed onto my bed, shutting my eyes.
---
Sleep came slowly, anger still simmering in my chest.
Then, a voice.
"So, you think I messed up the ending?"
My eyes shot open.
The room was dark, but something felt... off. I looked around, but there was no one.
The voice came again.
From the book.
I scrambled to get out of bed, reaching for the door, but it wouldn't budge.
Then, the book flipped open by itself. The pages of every volume on my shelf began tearing away, flying into the air. They gathered, swirling, merging into a single book.
I took a step back, my breath caught in my throat.
Then, it shined.
A blinding light swallowed me whole.
I was falling.
The world around me burst into a spectrum of colors, a vortex of light pulling me deeper and deeper. The sensation of weightlessness, of being carried through space and time, overtook me.
Ahead, a white light grew larger, consuming everything.
---
A scent—faint but familiar.
The smell of a railway station.
Distant echoes of announcements rang in my ears, blending into the rhythmic clatter of trains.
Slowly, I opened my eyes.
A gentle breeze brushed against my skin, the air fresher than anything I had ever breathed before.
I glanced around.
Few people.
Unfamiliar surroundings.
Then—
My eyes landed on the large stone sign near the station's exit.
Eldoria Station.
My breath caught.
No. That wasn't possible.
I took a step closer, my hands trembling slightly as I traced the engraved letters. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe I was dreaming.
But I needed confirmation.
I turned to a nearby man—an older gentleman with a newspaper tucked under his arm.
"Excuse me, sir," I asked, trying to sound calm. "Where am I?"
He barely glanced at me before replying, "Eldoria Station, of course. You need directions or something?"
Eldoria.
He said it so naturally, as if the name belonged to reality and not the pages of a book.
I staggered back, my heart pounding in my chest.
No matter how many people I asked, the answer remained the same.
This was Eldoria.
The same Eldoria from book.
The same fictional world I had spent hours reading about.
I was inside the book.
I pressed a hand against my forehead, forcing myself to think. I wasn't dead—at least, I didn't feel dead. So then... how?
Was this a dream? A hallucination? Some ridiculous prank?
As I struggled to process everything, a voice cut through the noise.
"Leon?"
A single word.
Calm. Steady.
Almost indifferent.
I turned toward the voice and—
A woman.
She stood a few steps away, her posture impeccable, arms lightly crossed as if she had been waiting for far too long.
Her brown hair fell past her shoulders in elegant waves, framing a face that was as sharp as it was expressionless. Her green eyes, cold and calculating, regarded me with a mix of mild recognition and thinly veiled disinterest—like a teacher forced to acknowledge an underperforming student.
She wore a neatly pressed maid uniform, but there was no warmth or servitude in her stance. If anything, she carried herself like someone who was perpetually unimpressed with the world around her.
More importantly.
She was looking beautiful.
Somehow, that made this whole situation even harder to grasp.
"...Y-Yeah, I'm Leon," I said, my voice slightly unsteady. "May I ask how you know me?"
For a moment, she didn't answer. Instead, she simply looked at me.
Then, in a tone as cool as the evening breeze, she finally spoke.
"You are from Ravenford, correct?"
I froze.
There was no hesitation in her voice. No uncertainty.
Her expression remained completely still, unreadable.
My fingers clenched into fists. I didn't even know how to respond.
After a brief pause, I forced myself to answer, "...Yes. I am."
She gave the smallest nod—barely an acknowledgment—before stating plainly,
"My name is Erica, and I was sent to pick you up. Please follow me."
Her tone was calm and indifferent, as if she were simply stating a fact. Without waiting for my response, she turned and started walking toward the station exit.
I hesitated for a moment.
She knew my name. She knew where I came from. That meant she was connected to whatever was happening here.
So, following her is the only option...
Still, something about the way she said my name felt strange like we know each other.
I sighed and followed her, keeping a little distance.
We stepped outside into the parking lot. Rows of high-end cars lined the area, their polished surfaces reflecting the soft light of the evening.
I glanced at her, wondering which car she was heading toward.
Then, she stopped in front of a black supercar with bold orange stripes.
It had a low, sleek frame, the kind of design built purely for speed. Even without knowing much about cars, I could tell this wasn't just expensive—it was on another level.
She opened the passenger door without a word and looked at me.
"Get in."
Her expression remained unreadable, her voice steady.
I hesitated, then slid into the seat.
The interior was smooth and refined, built for both luxury and performance. The seat adjusted to my posture the moment I sat down, and everything inside felt designed with precision.
Even the faint new-car scent mixed with leather felt expensive.
I barely had time to take it all in before she got into the driver's seat beside me.
She was close.
Not uncomfortably so, but enough that I could clearly notice the faint scent of her perfume—lavender fregreance.
Her presence carried a quiet elegance, the kind that made it hard to ignore her.
For a moment, I caught myself staring.
She turned to me.
"Is something wrong?"
Her expression didn't change, but the slight tilt of her head showed curiosity.
I quickly looked away.
"N-No, nothing."
She didn't say anything. Instead, she leaned in slightly.
My body tensed.
Then—
Click.
She pulled my seatbelt across and fastened it.
"You should wear your seatbelt."
...Yeah, of course.
She adjusted the mirrors, her movements smooth and precise, then placed her hands on the wheel.
I exhaled quietly.
The engine purred to life, smooth and deep. The kind of sound that made car lovers cry tears of joy.
I glanced out the window as the car rolled out of the parking lot.
And... we were going 40 km/h.
Really?
Here I was, riding in what looked like a hypercar straight out of a billionaire's garage, the kind of thing that made you feel like you should be racing through tunnels while orchestral music played in the background. And yet... we were going at a pace my grandma would've called "safe and respectful."
Disappointment? Mild.
But that feeling quickly vanished.
As we drove through the city, my eyes widened.
Mountains in the distance... a school with beautiful trees... an amusement park with a towering Ferris wheel. Every single place we passed by—it was straight out of the book I had read. No, not inspired by it. I mean exactly how it was described. From the cracked stone path to the golden logo at the gate of the academy, it all matched.
This dream was... oddly detailed. Too detailed.
I leaned back and glanced at the maid driving beside me. Still calm, eyes on the road, her expression unreadable. Like someone who knew more than she let on.
"Um... excuse me, Miss Erica," I said. "Where exactly are we going right now?"
She didn't even look my way. "Home."
"...Home?" I blinked. "And where is this 'home'? Also... who sent you?"
Her reply came after a pause. "Master Leon, I'm sure you have many questions. But I'm not the best person to answer them."
I blinked again.
Did she just say... Master Leon?
Before I could say anything, she added, "But don't worry. Someone is waiting for you there. Everything will be explained soon."
So someone... wants to meet me?
Alright, fine. I'll roll with it.
It's just a dream, right? Might as well enjoy the weird ride while it lasts.
Still, one thing bugged me more than anything else at the moment.
"Uh... there's one thing I wanted to ask," I said, glancing at the speedometer.
She looked at me without turning her head.
"I know driving safe is important and all... but, I mean, we are in a car like this. You can go a little faster, you know? It feels kinda wrong going slow in something this cool."
A pause.
"...I'm terribly sorry," she said, voice as composed as ever. "But I was strictly instructed not to exceed the speed limit."
"Oh... I see," I muttered. "Sorry for asking."
"No," she said. "I should apologize for not being able to fulfill your request."
Huh. She wasn't as cold as she looked.
As the car continued forward at its snail-speed luxury pace, I gazed out the window, admiring the city scenery. Everything looked pristine. Like a world born from paper and ink, now rendered real. It was too good to be true.
Eventually, we pulled into a residential street and stopped in front of a house. Not too big, not too small—but modern, elegant, and somehow... cozy. Like the kind of house you'd see on the final page of a manga, where the couple finally lives together.
She pulled to a smooth stop.
"We've arrived. You may go inside. I'll park the car and join you shortly," she said.
"Alright," I replied, grabbing the door handle and stepping out.
I stood in front of the house for a moment, taking it in.
A small balcony wrapped around the second floor, and a little garden sat neatly beside the entrance. It felt peaceful.
I walked up to the door and pressed the bell.
No response.
"Huh..."
Just as I turned to wait—
Click.
The door creaked open on its own.
"...Wind?" I muttered. "...Really strong wind?"
I stepped inside, cautious but curious. The interior was spotless. Polished floors, a simple kitchen, a sofa set that looked barely used. Everything was neat... almost like it had been expecting me.
And then I heard the door behind me shut.
I turned.
Erica was there. The maid.
Walking in with quiet, composed steps. Brown hair tied back neatly, brown eyes sharp yet calm.
Now or never, Leon. Come on.
How many times had I hesitated like this? There were so many moments I'd wanted to talk to a girl I liked. But every time, my voice would fumble, or I'd freeze up. They were always surrounded by their friends, laughing, living in a world that felt just out of reach.
But not this time.
This was my dream. And in dreams, you're supposed to be bold, right?
I took a deep breath, straightened up, and stood in front of her.
She stopped.
Her eyes met mine.
This is it.
I swallowed hard.
"I... u-uh... y-you look... r-really b-beautiful..."
My voice cracked somewhere around the middle. Smooth.
She tilted her head slightly, blinking once in confusion.
"Hmm?"
Great. She didn't even hear me properly.
N-now what?
"I mean... y-you're really beautiful! Also... c-can I get your number?"
...
Why did I ask for her number?
All I had to do was compliment her. That was it. Just say she looked nice and move on like a normal person.
This is exactly what happens when you hang out with those cursed seniors from the volleyball team.
I still remember the moment. Too well.
It was supposed to be a regular after-practice hangout. Just me and the seniors chilling by the vending machine, sipping cold drinks after drills that almost killed our souls, I was quietly sipping mango juice like a responsible introvert.
Then they walked by—a group of girls from the neighboring school. And naturally, one of my seniors stepped up like he owned the sidewalk.
Suddenly, one of our seniors called out—
"Hey! You made me drop something!"
One of the girls turned, puzzled. "Huh? What?"
I took a sip of juice.
He smiled like some professional anime heartthrob.
"My jaw."
PFFFT—KOFF! KOFF!
I nearly choked.
I turned to the side, thumping my chest with a fist. It wasn't loud, just an awkward, badly timed cough that totally gave away that I wasn't ready for that level of confidence
Did he really just said that? And with a straight face?!
Worse?
She laughed at his joke.
They actually started talking.
Five minutes later—they exchanged numbers like it was a casual currency swap.
Then another senior casually placed a hand on my shoulder and said.
"See? Confidence. That's all you need."
And yet, somehow, my dumb brain thought:
"You know what Leon? You can do that too."
...
And now I...
Now I...
She blinked. Once.
Her face? Still unreadable. Like I was a passing notification she hadn't decided whether to swipe left or right.
Silence.
Kill me.
Right now.
Just strike me with lightning and end this embarrassment.
Yep. I was definitely still me—even in dreams.
'Confidence is the key,' huh?
My foot.
And just when I thought she'd walk away or slap me with a lawsuit, I heard something.
A quiet shrrrk sound.
She was... tearing a piece of paper from a small flipbook?
Wait, what?
She handed me a tiny slip, and I stared at the numbers written on it.
This is—
"That's my number," she said calmly. "May I know yours?"
She extended her little notebook and pen toward me, still perfectly composed. Like this was just another Tuesday to her.
"Y-Yeah, sure..." I mumbled, taking them. My fingers moved before my brain did, scribbling my number down in the neatest handwriting I could manage.
She took the slip, gave it a brief glance, then smiled—just faintly. "I was about to ask for this as well."
Wait, what?
Before I could even process that line, she turned and gestured toward a nearby door. "Please wait there. I'll prepare some coffee."
She headed toward the kitchen, apron swaying slightly with her steps. My mind was now on fire, like someone threw a Molotov cocktail into my thoughts.
What just happened?
Did that seriously go... well?
Then I heard it.
"Master Leon."
My name. From her voice. Soft, even, and clear.
I looked up. She had stopped mid-step, back still turned, hand resting lightly on the edge of the kitchen entrance.
"Thanks for the compliment," she said, not looking back.
Then she disappeared into the kitchen.
And me?
I stood there like a fool with a burning face.
Okay. Maybe this dream wasn't so bad after all.
I slowly pushed the door open.
The air inside was thick with the scent of aged paper and sunlight.
Bookshelves, tall and proud, lined the walls—each one stuffed with colorful spines and ancient tomes. The kind of library room you'd expect to see in a fantasy novel... not in someone's actual house.
To the side, sliding glass doors bathed the room in warm, golden sunlight. Dust particles floated lazily in the air like tiny fairies dancing through a still afternoon.
At the center of the room, two cozy two-seater sofas faced each other across a low wooden table. And just beyond that, pressed gently against the far wall, was a study desk—neatly arranged with pens, books, and a soft-lit desk lamp.
And... a black cat?
I blinked.
There it was, curled up on the table like a loaf of bread, its tiny body rising and falling with every sleepy breath.
Wait.
Wasn't that...?
No way. I'm overthinking again.
It just looked similar to the one from the shop. That's all.
I walked over, sank into the sofa with a soft fwump, and placed the small slip of paper—the one with her number—gently onto the table. It just sat there, almost glowing in its simplicity.
I stared at it.
"I did it..." I whispered.
Sure, it wasn't the smoothest delivery. My voice cracked. My hands shook. I nearly faceplanted from the embarrassment.
But still.
I complimented her. Actually complimented a girl. And not just any girl—a maid with elegance and unreadable expressions.
"...It wasn't perfect," I muttered, a small smile tugging at my lips, "but it was a success."
A win is a win.
And the phone number?—bonus. Absolute jackpot.
I couldn't hold it in anymore and did a quiet celebratory wiggle on the sofa, barely stopping myself from fist-pumping the air.
Then—
"What are you so happy about?"
My whole body froze.
The voice was soft—almost bored—but somehow... familiar.
My breath caught as I slowly stood up, eyes scanning the room.
That voice... that voice.
It was the same one I heard before. Back in my room. The one that spoke before I blacked out.
"Who's there?" I asked, cautious.
I looked to the desk.
The black cat was—
"...Gone," I whispered.
"Searching for me?"
The voice came again, clearer this time. Feminine. Sarcastic. Human.
My heart rate doubled.
What? From where!?
I spun around but saw nothing.
"Fine," the voice sighed. Then—
Tap.
A light sound behind me. Like something hopping onto wood.
I froze.
"Behind you."
I turned. Slowly.
And there it was.
The black cat.
Now sitting upright on the desk, eyes wide open—gleaming green, bright and unnervingly intelligent. It stared directly at me.
"W-wait..." I stammered. "You're talking now?"
"Still hard to believe, huh?" the cat replied, stretching slightly like this was just another Tuesday.
My eyes widened. My brain scrambled. My sense of reality packed its bags and left the room.
Before I could speak, the door opened again.
Erica returned—graceful as ever—carrying a tray with a coffee cup and... a small ceramic bowl?
She approached, setting the coffee in front of me on the table, then gently placed the bowl near the cat.
"I brought bakery almond milk, just as you requested," she said, giving a small nod.
"Yeah, thanks," the cat replied casually.
It spoke.
Again.
And she wasn't surprised.
No. She nodded.
Like this was... normal?
The cat dipped its head and began drinking.
"What... what is going on...?" I muttered.
"I was watching you two," the cat said between sips. "Good job driving within speed limits, by the way. If you'd gone over,I was fully prepared to ban food for three weeks."
The maid bowed slightly. "I'm glad I was helpful."
The cat turned to me now. Its stare—way too serious for a creature under 10 inches tall.
"You look like you saw a ghost."
You think!?
"You..." I pointed at the cat, completely ignoring any sense of dignity. "You're the one from before! From my room!"
The cat finished its milk, then turned toward me, tail flicking lazily.
"You—! talked to her earlier? You drink almond milk?!"
"Relax," the cat replied, tail flicking. "You're getting worked up."
"I'm supposed to get worked up! You're a talking cat! You know my name, you were in my room, and now—wait. How do you even know my name?!"
The cat paused, eyes narrowing in amusement.
"I've known your name long before you came here, Leon."
That didn't help.
"So," it said, sitting upright again. "How was Eldoria on the way here? Everything match the book's descriptions?"
Books?
"What do you mean books?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
The cat's tail flicked lazily.
The cat tilted its head. "Eldoria. You've read about it, haven't you? All those places you passed—the amusement park, the academy hill, the mountains... You recognize them because they were written into stories. My stories. This world is built from imagination—and you're standing in it."
My head spun.
I wanted to say something. Anything.
But then it added one last line. One line that felt like a needle pricking the back of my neck.
"And more importantly..."
The cat's voice dropped slightly, serious now.
"This isn't a dream, Leon."
-To Be Continued-