The studio lights bathed her in soft pink glow. Behind her, an animated cafe with cute background music and some effects of flying butterfly made the atmosphere charming. Maris Tide adjusted her headphones, gave a practiced smile, and let her voice pour through the mic—charming, lilting, just the right balance of warmth and mischief.
"Thanks again for theeeeeee .... 2.4 million subsssss, everyone! I honestly didn't think we'd grow this fast. I mean—seriously? You're speed running me bruh."
The chat exploded in emojis and typed chaos. Her digital avatar, flowing silver hair and shimmering eyes, mirrored her gestures perfectly.
Maris was a name the internet adored. Funny. Graceful. Playfully chaotic. But more than that—mysterious. Fans speculated endlessly about her lore, her past, her name. Was she really new? Had she been an artist before but went underground due to some issues? Was there a secret about her stunning persona?
She gave them just enough silence to wonder. That was part of the charm.
Tonight's stream was simple—an anniversary karaoke session, by fan request. Maris leaned back in her chair, flipping through her playlist.
"Alright, next up... a little throwback. I found this old tune while cleaning my folders. I don't even remember downloading it—but it's pretty, so why not?"
She didn't notice the flicker in the corner of her screen.
The instrumental faded in, delicate piano over a distant hum of tides. Then she began to sing. The words came naturally—too naturally. Each note, each breath felt like muscle memory. Her voice trembled, not from nerves, but from the unfamiliar familiarity of the melody.
She closed her eyes.
And suddenly, she wasn't in the studio anymore.
The warmth of city lights was gone, replaced by cold mist and salt in the air. A whisper of wind carried a child's laugh across water. Her own voice, younger, echoing from somewhere deep inside her.
The lyrics slipped out like forgotten dreams:
"In a sea of glass, I saw the sun fall twice...
But the moon never came back."
Her heart stopped. She opened her eyes.
The stream was still going.
Her audience was dead silent.
No emojis. No messages. Nothing.
Then, a single line appeared in chat:
> "You said you'd never sing that again."
Maris stared at the screen, a chill crawling up her spine.
She didn't remember the song.
She didn't remember the promise.
But someone did.
And they were watching.