The Key in the Dream

The sunlight had finally broken through in its entirety, dyeing the clouds' curved edges gold, casting the shadows of the two people and the trees, and making the snow piled in the courtyard gleam white.

After briefly brushing across Hiran's smooth brown hair, Fan Ning quickly lowered his hand.

"Look, the sun's out."

Hiran sniffed with her little nose, red from the cold, and said, "Caloen, thank you. You know, I've already gotten through the hardest part. When I heard you play that piece at the funeral, I cried the whole time, but afterward I felt much better. It gave me a strange way out."

Fan Ning nodded lightly.

The two of them climbed the steps.

Hiran took a key from her little cloth shoulder bag. As she turned the lock, she looked back at him. "Caloen, I feel like you've changed a little lately."

"Oh?" Fan Ning looked at her.

Could she have noticed something after I crossed over?

"It's hard to explain." Hiran tilted her head in thought as she opened the door. "You seem to have gained something beyond your usual composure. More certainty, maybe? Or confidence?"

"Oh."

Hiran finally smiled softly. "You're silly."

When the door opened, Fan Ning changed into his usual white slippers with practiced ease. He took off his black formal jacket and hung it on the coat rack in the living room.

The walls around the reception room were covered in embossed wallpaper patterned like grapevines. Black velvet blankets covered the sofas, and two sets of colorful oak coffee tables stood in the middle. On the slightly raised circular platform at the back of the room sat a black, seven-foot grand piano. Behind it were floor-to-ceiling windows, through which they could see the small greenhouse in the garden.

It was naturally far better than Fan Ning's own place, but among professors, Teacher Anton could hardly be called someone who pursued a high quality of life. Apart from hiring laborers for repairs and gardening, he and Hiran handled all their daily chores themselves.

Fan Ning continued through the house with practiced ease and lit the fireplace. Once the house had warmed a little, the two of them gave the place a thorough cleaning. The small two-story villa took six or seven hours.

Afterward, in the kitchen, Hiran tossed several beef spine bones and ribs onto the grill, sprinkled them with salt and pepper, then cooked a large plate of Lydian macaroni and poured melted cheese and cream over it. Fan Ning stirred together milk, flour, and sesame oil, beat in two raw egg yolks, and poured in half a bottle of Wafolang dark beer. After whipping it smooth, he coated a fish that had been beheaded, gutted, deboned, and dusted with flour, then fried it until both sides were golden brown, making a simple plate of fish and chips.

The last dish they brought to the table was a hearty turnip, carrot, and ham stew they had prepared together. Sitting across from each other, they enjoyed a homely but earnest dinner.

After washing up, Fan Ning changed into the pajamas he kept at his teacher's house. In the warm living room, he began playing the piano—the Ctesibius commemorative model from the year 900 of the New Calendar. Professor Anton particularly loved its crisp, bright tone in the upper register.

Hiran emerged from the bathroom wearing a violet, knee-length cotton nightgown. She kicked off her slippers with her bare feet and climbed onto the sofa's velvet blanket, on the side closest to the piano.

She leaned against the sofa, crossed her legs, rested her chin in her hands, and listened intently to Fan Ning's playing.

Over the course of more than an hour, Fan Ning played every movement of Anton Conall's Tenth, Eleventh, and Twelfth Piano Sonatas in succession.

Only then did Hiran speak softly. "Caloen, I didn't expect you to have finished practicing all three of Father's late works."

"Yes. I've always wanted to record a complete album of Teacher Anton's piano sonatas, but my skill is limited." Fan Ning shook his somewhat weary arms and wrists.

"I think you play beautifully, Caloen."

"Thank you." Fan Ning smiled at her. "But a record can't be released with so many flaws. There are countless technical difficulties to overcome one by one... Those popular pieces take anywhere from two or three years to twenty or thirty years. People always rush in together, then scatter just as quickly... This is different.

"Once serious music is released, it has to bear permanent responsibility to its listeners and to art history. I may need to practice for many more years before I find the right time."

Hiran looked toward the door leading from the living room to the study, then glanced toward her father's bedroom upstairs. She said wistfully, "Caloen, I can't stop thinking that Father is actually still alive, that this was all just a dream. He's still at home, and in a moment he'll come out of the study wearing that tattered nightshirt of his and criticize your performance, or come down the stairs from the second floor and say that it's already late, so you shouldn't leave after all... I can't stop myself from thinking that..."

Fan Ning sat before the piano, staring at his fingers hovering above the keys.

After a moment of silence, he raised his head and looked at the girl on the sofa. "Hiran, I think Teacher Anton is indeed still alive."

Looking into Hiran's eyes, he explained seriously, "Artists who leave behind great works will live forever in another form. Their works are their lives and wills. No matter when or where people are, whenever they play that artist's music, he'll be able to feel it. Their spirits may even resonate with those of the people playing."

Hiran still looked slightly troubled, but she nodded obediently.

"It's getting late. Go to sleep." Fan Ning withdrew his hand from above the keys.

"I want to hear one more song." Hiran yawned and patted her little mouth.

"All right." Fan Ning shook his head helplessly, placed his hands back on the keyboard, and began playing Tchaikovsky's Barcarolle.

A cool accompaniment with gentle rises and falls filled the room, its songlike melody carrying a hint of melancholy.

It was like a lonely little boat being slowly rowed into the distance across an early-summer river, its surface cool beneath the moonlit night.

Hiran listened, dazed.

"Did you write it recently? What's it called?"

"I suppose so. I call it 'Barcarolle.'"

"I like it."

The two of them went upstairs. After wishing each other good night, Fan Ning closed Hiran's door for her and emphasized once again that if anything unusual happened during the night, or if she felt unwell in any way, she had to call out and wake him.

After lying down in the guest room next door, separated only by a walk-in closet, he took off his necklace.

Although the Museum Key had a peculiar function, he still couldn't see anything special about it.

The pale golden words before his eyes had just finished displaying "Barcarolle" and had risen from [390/100] to [395/100].

He tossed the key beside his pillow, turned off the light, and closed his eyes.

Fan Ning had a dream whose nature he did not initially realize.

He walked side by side with a young man down a fog-shrouded street, apparently near Knights' Square on Green Peacock Street by the school.

The young man had a sturdy build. His clothing and features were unclear, but Fan Ning knew he was Lu Adair, whom he had met at the funeral—the leader of Group Two in the music academy's year, the son of a railroad tycoon, and the percussionist who played the timpani in the school symphony orchestra.

On the hazy street, the two of them chatted about things that made no logical sense.

Fan Ning shared his experience growing mushrooms in a viola using gin, information about exhibition performances by airship skydivers, and his opinions on the styles of corseted dresses worn by young women these days.

During the conversation, Lu Adair fiercely argued against him, insisting that he was only a timpani mallet, and declared that he would catch a fire-breathing dragon in King Louis's kitchen to prove his point.

As they talked, the shape of the Museum Key suddenly materialized in Fan Ning's mind.

He reached into his own chest and touched the necklace he always wore in real life.

And so, he successfully realized that he was dreaming.

A sudden feeling came over him, and he made a strange joke. "Group Leader Adair, when we meet in reality later, do you think we'll talk about this dream? Or is this merely my own Clear Dream, rather than an actual shared memory?"

The upper half of Lu's face became clear within the dream, and his gaze sharpened with awareness.

He stared at Fan Ning in surprise, then looked at the fog-shrouded street around them. Suddenly, he stumbled, and half his body sank into the ground.

Fan Ning reached out his right hand as if to pull him up. Nearly invisible golden threads wound outward, allowing Lu to regain his footing.

"Not good!" After lending a hand, Fan Ning immediately felt his spirit begin to burn violently. His Inspiration was about to run dry, and he was on the verge of losing consciousness and falling out of the Clear Dream.

At that moment, the key hanging over his chest in the dream began to heat up, and dazzling points of light converged on him from every direction.

Among them was an even more surging torrent, coming from a sewer manhole cover by the roadside. Fan Ning sensed that beneath the cover lay the edge of the Astral World—the entrance to the Migrant Surge.

At that moment, Fan Ning felt that his pitifully shallow pool of Inspiration was being consumed at astonishing speed, as if a floodgate had opened.

Yet at the same time, because of the key's transformation, Inspiration from all directions was replenishing it at an even faster rate.

As a result, he could maintain Lu's awareness while somehow feeling no pressure at all.

"The key? What happened to the key?" Fan Ning nearly cried out in the dream.