Publisher's Synopsis
In the depths of profound stillness, the world around lay consumed by silence, a silence born of fear that gripped every heart. The cacophony of chaos had faded, leaving behind an eerie void where only the memory of a furious blaze lingered. That inferno, once relentless and omnipresent, had winked out, paving the way for an enveloping darkness.
One soul, a man named Beethoven, dared to peel his eyelids apart. His vision met nothing but shadows, yet he sensed the ethereal presence of others a subtle thrum of existence beside him. He almost imagined he could hear the faintest whisper of his own eyelids parting. For Beethoven, who had traversed more than half his life without the gift of sound, this was a curious sensation. He had endured an eternity surrounded by tormenting rumbles and unrelenting roars. Which was worse, he pondered, to be deaf or to hear? After a moment's reflection, he concluded that hearing was the greater blessing, a thought that briefly amused him. As if summoned by his contemplation, a soft glow ignited above his hands. To his astonishment, he found them suspended above the glossy black keys of a grand piano. Tentatively, he allowed his fingers to glide over the keys from left to right, creating a resonant harmony with each stroke. In unison, spectral figures sprang forth a twisted embodiment of the tortured souls depicted in Rodin's Gates of Hell. Each figure clawed its way from the depths, as though compelling Beethoven to play on. With every key struck, the chilling air deepened, but Beethoven remained unfazed. He locked eyes with each anguished spirit that emerged, meeting their torment with bold defiance. Here, in this haunting space, he reveled in a soundscape he had long been deprived of; for the first time in ages, he could hear each note resonating beneath his fingertips. But the world flickered again, and he found himself in a different realm, standing at the threshold of an unfamiliar room. There sat his nephew Karl, performing diligently on a piano nestled within the confines of ominous crimson walls and a floor that cradled his steps like a cloud. Proudly, Beethoven watched his nephew create music, but as the melody unfolded, an unbearable anger surged within him, and he erupted in a torrent of shouts at Karl. Panic-stricken, his expression twisted in fear as a storm of rage engulfed Beethoven, swirling like a tempest around them. Then came the shattering moment: Karl pressed the pistol against his own temple, and though Beethoven could not hear the deafening blast, he felt its resonance in the marrow of his bones. Blood splattered like a gruesome artwork, staining the walls a deeper shade of crimson, vivid against the shadows. In that instant, time distorted, transforming a cherished bond into an irrevocable fracture, leaving behind nothing but silence and the horror of a life extinguished. Dreadful stillness followed, leaving the maestro staring in horrified disbelief at his nephew's lifeless form. In his trembling grasp lay pages of music and a conductor's baton, symbols of his passion now irrevocably intertwined with tragedy. Before he could comprehend the loss, the scene shifted. Gone was the haunted room, replaced instead by a squalid space, the air thick with the odor of neglect. Dusty curtains hung limply at the window, and there, sprawled upon a faded blue velvet chaise, was Josephine the love he had secretly nurtured for a lifetime, now a mere specter of her former glory. His heart ached as he reached toward her, only to watch her drift farther away, her image dissolving into the ether. And thus, with revelation on the horizon, the journey began. In the words of Beethoven, each melody holds a promise, waiting to be fulfilled, Beethoven's Eternal Promise.
