Secrets Of The Timeless Veil (3in1)

The taxi screeched to a halt outside Lucas's run-down apartment complex. The driver barely waited for him to step out before peeling away. Lucas stood there, clutching his cane, his teeth grinding as he heard the faint buzz of traffic and the faint rustle of the wind around him. He couldn't see it. He'd never see it again.

"Figures," he muttered to himself. "Even the driver couldn't wait to get rid of me." His lips curled into a bitter smirk before he fumbled forward, tapping the cane on the ground like he'd been instructed.

He made it to the steps of the building, but tripped on the second one, smashing his shin against the edge.

"Damn it!" he barked, his voice echoing through the empty street. He slapped his hand on the stair railing, gripping it tightly as he pulled himself up. It was humiliating. His old life might've sucked, but at least he could see where he was going.

It took him twice as long to find the door to his apartment, fumbling with his keys and swearing under his breath. Finally, the door creaked open, and the familiar smell of his stale, unkempt home hit him.

Lucas dropped the cane and slammed the door shut behind him. "Home, sweet freakin' home," he grumbled.

…

The days crawled by, each one worse than the last. Lucas had no visitors, no friends to call, no family to lean on. Not that he'd wanted them before. He'd been perfectly fine living his bitter, isolated life.

But now? Now it was unbearable.

He cursed the walls for being too close, the furniture for always being in the way. He cursed himself for every stumble, every bump, every bruise. The kitchen was the worst.

One day, he tried to get a glass of water. He reached for where he thought the cabinet was, but his hand smacked the wall instead. "Stupid, useless hands!" he snarled, banging his fist against it. The pain shot up his arm, but he didn't care.

When he finally found the cabinet, he knocked down two glasses before grabbing one. His grip was too tight, and the damn thing shattered in his hand.

"Are you kidding me?!" he roared, the sharp edge of the broken glass biting into his skin. He didn't even notice the blood dripping onto the counter.

He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, before slamming both hands on the counter. "Why the hell am I even alive?"

The bathroom was no better. He hated the sound of the water dripping from the faucet. It was like it mocked him, reminding him of everything he couldn't do. One night, he tried to make it there in the dark, and his foot caught on the edge of the rug.

He went down hard, slamming his face into the cold tile floor.

He lay there for a long time, his cheek pressed against the unfeeling surface. "Just kill me already," he muttered, his voice shaking.

He dragged himself up, his whole body trembling. "I'm not some charity case," he spat into the darkness. "I don't need anyone."

The worst part was the silence. Lucas had never noticed how quiet his life was. He sat on the couch most days, staring into the void, his ears straining for any noise, traffic outside, the hum of the fridge, anything to remind him he wasn't dead.

But it wasn't enough.

"Lucas Arden," he muttered to himself one day, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch. "You've hit rock bottom. Blind, useless, and alone."

His lip curled into a bitter smile, but it didn't last. The smile faded, and his voice cracked. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

The breakdown came on the fifth day.

He'd been trying to navigate the house again, his cane useless against the clutter he hadn't cleaned in months. He tripped over a stack of books and went sprawling to the floor.

"Damn it!" he screamed, his fists pounding against the ground. "This is hell! This is a goddamn joke!"

He crawled to the wall, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He pressed his forehead against the cold surface, his fists clenching so hard his nails dug into his palms.

"Why me?" he whispered, his voice was hoarse now. "Why the hell did I survive?"

For the first time, tears burned in his eyes. He hated himself for crying, for being weak. But he couldn't stop.

And no one was there to hear him. No one to care.

Lucas groaned as he pressed his forehead harder against the wall. His legs were sprawled awkwardly, and his palms stung from hitting the floor moments ago.

"What's the point of this?" he muttered, his voice hoarse and dripping with frustration. His hands fumbled against the cold, dusty floor, searching for something, anything, to help him get up.

His fingers brushed against smooth wood, the edge of something familiar. He froze, his brows furrowing. "What the hell is this?" he muttered, patting the surface.

And then he pressed a key.

The sound was soft but pure, echoing through the silence of the room. It hit him like a jolt of electricity. His head snapped up, his sightless eyes wide as he muttered, "No way…"

His hand moved across the piano's surface now, feeling the keys. It had been years, seven, maybe eight, since he'd last touched it. The memories were vivid in his mind. That piano was his grandfather's last gift to him, back when his life wasn't the tangled mess it was now. Back when he wasn't so bitter.

Lucas hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keys. "Don't be stupid," he whispered to himself. "What's the point?"

But his fingers betrayed him, pressing down again. This time, it wasn't a random note. It was music, soft and hesitant at first, then flowing as his fingers remembered their rhythm. A melody began to fill the room, and with each note, something strange happened.

The pain in his knees eased. The burning ache in his palms faded.

He stopped abruptly, his hands trembling over the keys. His breath quickened as he touched his knees, running his fingers over them. The bruises were gone.

"What the…" His voice trailed off, his heart pounding in his chest.

Outside, the sound of a baby crying pierced the night. The cry was sharp and desperate, the kind that clawed at your chest. Lucas recognized the voice…it was his neighbors' sickly infant. He grimaced.

"Great," he muttered. "As if I didn't have enough crap to deal with."

The mother's panicked voice rang out next. "He's not breathing right! Mark, we need to go now!"

"I'm getting the car!" the father shouted back, his voice strained.

Lucas clenched his jaw. He'd told them before it was a waste. "Why keep trying for a kid that's not gonna make it?" he'd said. It had turned into a full-blown shouting match, nearly ending in blows. But here they were again, desperately trying to save the child.

He returned his focus to the piano, shaking his head. "Not my problem," he grumbled, his fingers finding the keys again.

As the melody filled the air, something shifted. The baby's cries faltered, turning into hiccups. Lucas paused, his hands hovering over the piano, his ears straining.

"Anna, he's… he's stopping," the father said, his voice shaking.

"What do you mean stopping?" the mother shouted. "Mark, he's… Oh my God! He's smiling! He's…he's laughing!"

Lucas sat frozen, listening as the parents' panic turned into joy.

"He's better!" the mother screamed, her voice trembling with disbelief. "Oh my God, he's breathing fine! His color's back! Mark, look at him!"

The neighbors joined in, their voices rising in astonishment.

"It's a miracle!"

"How is this possible?"

Lucas's heart pounded as he realized something unthinkable. His fingers hovered over the piano, shaking. Slowly, he pressed the keys again, letting the melody flow through him.

The baby's laughter continued, and the parents' cries of joy grew louder. Lucas's throat tightened, his mind racing.

"It's… the piano," he whispered, his voice cracking. "No. That's impossible."

But it wasn't. The bruises on his body were gone, and now this?

Lucas sat there, blind and stunned, the music fading into silence as his hands fell limp at his sides.

"What the hell is going on?" he muttered, his voice filled with disbelief.