Sofia resided in a small village nestled high in the Pyrenees, Andorra. At twelve, her world was typically one of school, mountainside walks, and the quiet comfort of her family's home. The village was usually calm, a place where days slipped by with predictable ease.
But a disquiet was beginning to settle, a sense that something wasn't quite right. Animals acted skittish, and the air itself felt heavier, charged with a silent tension nobody could name.
It started subtly, with what sounded like music drifting on the breeze. At first, Sofia dismissed it as coming from a neighbor's radio, perhaps played at an unusual hour.
Yet, as the day wore on, the music persisted, growing clearer. It wasn't pop music or the familiar local tunes. This was older, something from a bygone age, a melody carried by a singular, powerful female vocal.
Intrigued, Sofia ventured outside. The song seemed to come from the village square, usually deserted mid-afternoon. As she approached, the sound intensified, echoing off the stone buildings. Reaching the square, she found it empty.
No radio, no speakers, just the song, hanging in the stillness. The singer's timbre was rich, full of vibrato, singing a language Sofia did not recognize, yet the emotion in the voice was unmistakable – a blend of sorrow and something else, something ancient and deep.
Confused, Sofia returned home, mentioning the music to her parents.
They listened, stepping outside, but claimed to hear nothing. "Just the wind, mon cherie," her father said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. Her mother, ever practical, suggested it was probably just her imagination running wild. But Sofia knew what she had heard. It was real, undeniably so.
The next day, it happened again. The same song, the same haunting vocal, once more filling the village square. This time, Sofia wasn't alone.
A few other villagers had gathered, listening, their faces etched with bewilderment. They, too, heard it. It wasn't her imagination. Murmurs arose. "Who is singing?" someone whispered. "Where is it coming from?"
Then, the whispers turned to gasps. A figure had appeared in the center of the square, where moments before there had been nothing.
A woman, dressed in an elegant gown that seemed out of date, stood with her eyes closed, her head tilted back, singing. Her voice was even more potent up close, resonating through their very bones.
It was the voice from the music, now undeniably live, emanating from this woman who had seemingly just materialized.
Panic started to ripple through the small crowd. People backed away, their confusion morphing into fear. Who was this woman?
How had she appeared? And why this song, so full of melancholy and foreboding? Sofia, despite her own apprehension, felt rooted to the spot, unable to tear her attention away from the singer. There was something compelling, almost hypnotic, about her presence.
As quickly as she had appeared, the singer vanished. The song ceased abruptly, leaving a silence that felt heavier than before. The villagers stood in stunned silence, exchanging bewildered looks.
Whatever they had just witnessed defied explanation. Talk erupted, a cacophony of frightened voices speculating, questioning. Nobody had an answer.
News of the singing woman spread through Andorra like wildfire. In the beginning, it was dismissed as village gossip, fanciful tales. But then, reports started coming from other towns, other villages, scattered across the Pyrenees. Similar stories: old songs, sung by figures who appeared and vanished. And the songs… people described them as beautiful but deeply unsettling, carrying a sense of impending doom.
Sofia's parents, initially dismissive, could no longer ignore the growing unease. They listened to the radio, to local news channels. The reports were fragmented, strange, and unsettling.
It was happening everywhere – not just in Andorra, but in France, Spain, Italy, across Europe, even further afield, as fractured news reports began to filter in from around the globe. Singers, long deceased, were returning to life, singing songs from their past.
One evening, Sofia's father tuned into a crackling shortwave radio broadcast, searching for any coherent information. Static filled the air, interspersed with snippets of panicked voices speaking different languages.
Then, a voice, clear and chillingly calm, cut through the static in English. "…volcanic activity… globally… unprecedented… seismic events… coinciding with… the singers… yes, the singers… it is said, a sign… of the agreement… the ancient pact…" The signal broke up, fading back into static and garbled noise.
"What pact?" Sofia's mother whispered, her face pale. Her father shook his head, switching off the radio, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a deep worry. He didn't have an answer, but the fear in his eyes spoke volumes. The world felt like it was tilting on its axis, everything familiar becoming strange and menacing.
The singers continued to appear, their performances becoming more frequent, more widespread. Each song was a mournful ballad, a lament echoing across the land.
People started recognizing some of the singers – names from history books, legends of music long gone. Opera stars, blues singers, folk musicians, pop icons from decades past – all back, singing as if their very souls were poured into each note.
Sofia, drawn by a morbid fascination, began to seek out these spectral concerts. She traveled to nearby villages, following rumors, drawn by the ethereal voices.
She saw them herself now – a famous Spanish flamenco singer in a dusty town square, a renowned French chansonnière on a mountaintop overlooking a valley, an Italian opera diva in a crumbling church. Each performance was brief, poignant, and terrifyingly beautiful.
One day, in a small town bordering France, Sofia witnessed something that chilled her to the core. A group had gathered around a singer, a man this time, an American blues legend who was known for his mournful songs.
As he sang, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble. Not a strong tremor, but a subtle vibration that grew steadily stronger with each verse.
People screamed, scattering in panic. Dust and small stones began to fall from nearby buildings. The singer, however, remained unmoved, continuing his song, his voice rising above the growing tremor, imbued with an even deeper sense of sorrow.
Then, with a sound like a monstrous sigh, a fissure cracked open in the ground near the singer. Steam hissed out, smelling of sulfur. The song ended abruptly, and the singer vanished, leaving behind only the terrified screams of the crowd and the ominous fissure in the earth.
Sofia ran, fear propelling her back home, the image of the smoking crack in the earth seared into her mind. The singers weren't just harbingers of doom; they were somehow connected to it. The trembling ground, the fissure, it all pointed to something catastrophic.
Back in her village, the atmosphere was thick with dread. People huddled in their homes, listening to the radio, watching flickering television screens, desperate for information, for reassurance.
But there was none. News reports spoke of increasing volcanic activity across the globe – volcanoes dormant for centuries were stirring, rumbling, starting to spew ash and smoke.
Sofia's father, usually a man of action, seemed paralyzed by fear. Her mother tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy, but her forced smiles and strained voice betrayed her terror.
Sofia felt lost, adrift in a sea of growing panic and confusion. What was happening? And why these singers? What did their songs mean?
Late one night, unable to sleep, Sofia crept downstairs. Her father was in the living room, hunched over an old book, its pages illuminated by a single lamp. He looked up as she entered, his eyes red-rimmed and weary. "Sofia, mon petit," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You should be asleep."
"Papa, what is happening?" she asked, her voice trembling. "The singers… the volcanoes… what does it all mean?"
He sighed, gesturing for her to sit beside him. "I… I don't fully understand, ma chérie. But I have been reading… old stories, legends. They speak of a pact, a bargain made long ago. Between… well, between the world and… and something dark." He hesitated, as if reluctant to utter the name.
Sofia prompted him. "Something dark? Like what, Papa?"
He took a deep breath. "Like… the Devil. The legends say he made a bargain, that he would hold back his power, his destructive force, for a time. In exchange… well, the exchange isn't clear in all stories. But some say, when the time comes for the bargain to end, the sign will be… songs. Songs from the dead."
Sofia stared at him, her young mind struggling to grasp the enormity of what he was suggesting. "The Devil? He's going to… to end the world?"
Her father nodded slowly. "It seems… it seems that is what the legends foretell. The volcanoes… they are said to be his breath, his rage. If he unleashes them all at once…" His voice trailed off, unable to articulate the horror of such a scenario.
"But why the singers?" Sofia asked again. "Why are they singing?"
"Perhaps…" her father mused, turning a page of the ancient book. "Perhaps it is their final warning. A last, mournful song for a world about to be lost. Or… perhaps it is part of the bargain itself. A symphony of sorrow before the end."
His words hung heavy in the air. Sofia looked out the window at the dark mountains, no longer comforting, now looming and menacing. The world felt different, tainted by this terrible revelation. The singers, the songs, the volcanoes – it was all connected, a nightmare unfolding in slow motion.
Days turned into nights, each one filled with increasing dread. The volcanic eruptions intensified, plumes of ash darkening the sky.
The singers' voices grew louder, more numerous, their songs now a constant backdrop to the growing chaos. It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen.
Then, it began. A new song started, different from all the others. It was a chorus, a multitude of voices, male and female, blending together in a sound that was both agonizingly beautiful and utterly terrifying. It came from everywhere, from the mountains, from the valleys, from the very air itself. It was the song of the end.
Sofia, with her parents, stood outside their home, listening. The chorus swelled, reaching a crescendo that seemed to tear at the very fabric of reality. The ground shook violently now, not just tremors, but earth-shattering convulsions.
In the distance, they saw it – the mountains themselves seemed to be erupting, not just smoke and ash, but rivers of molten rock flowing down their slopes.
Her father pulled them close, holding them tight as the world around them dissolved into fire and destruction.
The chorus reached its peak, then slowly, agonizingly, began to fade. As the last notes died away, a silence fell, a silence more profound than any they had ever known. The eruptions reached a fever pitch.
Sofia looked up at her parents, their faces illuminated by the hellish glow of the erupting volcanoes. Her mother smiled weakly, tears streaming down her face. Her father held them both, whispering words of love, of comfort, words lost in the roar of the apocalypse.
The world ended not with a scream, but with a song, a chorus of the dead, a lament for a world consumed by fire.
And for Sofia, the final, brutal sadness was not just the end of the world, but the lingering echo of that beautiful, terrible chorus, forever intertwined with the last moments she shared with her family, a haunting symphony played out as everything she knew turned to ash and fire, a song that would forever resonate in the void where her life used to be.