Grief leaves echoes. Some of them can sing back.

Melody Harper is not okay.

She arrives in the rain, violin case in hand, stepping into a strange city that feels as hollow as the loss that brought her here. She's grieving. Untethered. Barely pretending to function. But the Bechstein Building doesn't care about that. It opens its glass doors with a whisper and takes her in like it's been expecting her.

Inside, time doesn't behave. Memories feel staged. Hallways change their shape when she isn't looking. And the apartment she's rented—empty, silent, too clean—begins to feel like a waiting room for something older than death. Something that hums behind the walls and flickers between the lights. Something that might be listening.

Melody came to Bechstein to forget, to disappear into routine. Instead, she finds herself drawn into a quiet unraveling: cryptic notes left on the piano, radio static that forms her name, voices that echo in her sleep. The building is full of ghosts, but not the kind she expected.

And the deeper she goes, the more she realizes the real haunting may not be supernatural at all.

The Aetherwave Requiem is a lyrical, slow-burning novella about music, memory, grief, and the way trauma can fold time in on itself. With atmospheric prose and creeping tension, it explores what happens when sorrow is left alone too long—and what it means to be truly heard when you're ready to vanish.

📻 For readers who love ghost stories with emotional depth, urban settings with a hint of the surreal, and characters who don't always want to be saved.

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