Lyra

Lyra was found among the rubble of the Old Rialto Theater, a once-grand hall that had become a shadow of its former self even before the bombing. When rescuers sifted through the wreckage, they discovered a glass display case shattered into glittering shards. Inside had been a dozen porcelain dolls used as props for the children’s matinee plays. Every doll lay in pieces—except one.

She was untouched.

Her porcelain face was unblemished, her dress still neat despite the ash and soot that clung to the ruins. Survivors swore they had seen her before the attack, sitting quietly in her case as the pianola onstage began to stir on its own. No musician touched the keys, yet a haunting waltz would echo through the empty house. Some said it was an invitation. Others whispered it was a warning.

When Lyra was finally removed from the theater, something strange followed. The instruments left behind began to act as if guided by invisible hands. A violin’s bow would scrape across strings in the dark. A harp plucked its own mournful notes. The piano keys trembled as though resisting silence.

Those who have taken her in report the same phenomenon. They hear humming in the night—soft, tuneless at first, then swelling into a familiar waltz. Radios switch on without power. Music boxes wind themselves. Some owners claimed to wake to find their bodies swaying as if they were already dancing, compelled by a rhythm only Lyra knew.

Her song, once started, is relentless. She does not stop until the final dancer collapses in exhaustion… or worse.