^Source

When you approach the cafe you are grateful to see The Manager talking to a mysterious figure in a black long coat and hat. The figure's face is obscured, but you can hear The Manager talking.

"...Eight's the number, certainly," he says, his expression dark.

"And you're sure?" You can hear the other figure barely whisper. The Manager notices you. He brightens, patting the mysterious figure on the shoulder.

"I'm sure. Anyway, we'll resolve this later."

He turns to you.

"Hello there, Traveler!" he greets, brightly. "Sorry we were closed last time. Did you get my note about the mirror?"

You mull over which parts to tell him, shivering inside as you remember the experience, when he continues.

"Oh, before I forget. Will you be attending the performance tonight, or enjoying the evening on the patio?"

You explain to him that you don't have a ticket, but he merely smirks.

"This one's on the house, friend. Hurry," he says, opening the front door. "You've got to get tied down before she starts."

You're beginning to wonder just what kind of show is about to happen. When you enter the cafe proper you see audience members chatting amicably in front of a stage. They are all tied to wooden poles standing in front of the tables. Some are wearing strange and elaborate make-up and costumes.

"Masts, you see?" The Manager says proudly, as if this explains everything.

Mask wearing men and women wearing suits move woodenly from one rope to the next, testing them to make sure they are secure. The Manager whispers to you as he directs you to the only empty pole, you presume yours.

"Those mask wearers, those are the helping hands. They live in the nameless dimension in my basement and occasionally do me a favor for rent."

Against your better judgment you lean against the poll. Two of the mask wearers move to you and, without a word, tie you to the poll with a sturdy rope.

"Remarkable," he says as they walk away. "They can almost pass for humanoid when they want to. But then, so can most of the people here, eh?"

You're about to ask what The Manager means when his eyes roll towards the stage.

"Oh! Here she comes."

The stage is lit in deep purple as the other lights in the room go dark. People tied to the polls are cheering, hooting, and hollering. You're not sure you've seen this many people in the cafe before, and it's only in the darkness that you realize that what you had mistook for people in costume are actually otherworldly beings.

Then the singing begins.

It hits your ears and pierces through your eardrums down into your brain, down into the depths of your soul. But in a good way. It's only after you feel its effect that you begin to register the melody, a strange and haunting tune sang without taking a breath.

You feel it working it's way through your body, through every cell, like a warm soup sinking into your belly. Tears stream down your face as the smell of your first love wafts gently under your nose, as invisible arms swaddle you suddenly in the middle of your saddest memory.

Things jiggle loose in your heart and mind. Old things, scars buried and painted over time and again, uncovered and laid bare. Made raw. Up and down her lilting voice goes, bringing with it a liquid ecstasy that, despite it's unfathomable pain, is what you know will be the only unconditional love you will ever know.

You are pulled toward the stage by some unknown force, like the room has tilted and you are falling. Somewhere in your mind the last shreds of awareness realize that you are not being pulled but, rather, are fighting frantically, hysterically, against the rope. Every other person is much the same or worse, fighting, calling out to her desperately. You spot the manager leaning bemusedly against a nearby wall, completely untied, and wonder once again what exactly he is.

You tense as the core of your being unravels, the song vibrating on the wavelength of your essence. Every atom shakes with too much joy. Her song plays off you, revealing everything. A sound of you.

And it's over.

You are brought rushing back to reality, to control of your own mind. You realize that you are untied now, slumping against the poll on the floor.

There's a pat on your shoulder and a chuckle. You snap out of it to realize that the cafe is mostly empty, mask wearers gone along with most of the audience.

"Is he okay?" She asks, looking down at you worriedly. It was the woman from onstage. You try to reassure her with words, but your mouth feels full of cotton.

"Oh, it's fine. Probably a little soon for me to let them hear you sing but, after all, you won't be back for another 100 years. Didn't want them to miss it."

Pulling yourself up, you rub your throat. The Manager chuckles, again.

"Why don't I gather some refreshments. Back shortly."

The woman eyes you closely, her eyes squinting slighting.

"Funny. You don't seem like the usual patron. I think I can see why he has taken a shine to you. It's too bad you won't be here when I return."

Your confusion must show on your face, because she then leans in.

"You should ask The Manager about the last Traveler he took a shine to. I'll warn you now: The Manager is a most dangerous being, and his beloved cafe? It's the most dangerous place anywhere."

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Late Night Steemit Cafe #8: A Sound of You

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