Apollo plucks the final string, searching for the note that will unlock the future. The lyre string snaps. Silence fills the chamber. Then he hears it — a sound that shouldn't exist, a whisper woven through the quiet, carrying words he never composed. He lifts the golden lyre, studying the broken string that hangs limp against the frame. The impossible sound grows louder. It resonates from within the silence itself, as if the absence of music has given birth to something new. Apollo's fingers hover over the remaining strings. He cannot recreate what he just heard. He cannot even name it. The Theatre of the Muses stands empty around him, its marble columns catching the light from molten waterfalls outside. Apollo crosses to the golden stage where he first began this composition three days ago. He sets the lyre down on the ornate platform. The whisper follows him, threading through his thoughts like a melody he has always known but never played. Apollo kneels on the stage, pressing his palm flat against the gold. The sound pulses beneath his hand — not a vibration, but a presence. His eternal hymn was meant to reveal the future through perfect notes arranged in flawless order. This sound reveals nothing. It simply is. For the first time in a thousand years, Apollo realizes his vision might be incomplete.