The days began to stretch out like soft lines on a map, each of the boys slowly adapting to their lives in this strange yet strangely comfortable universe. Though the studio had become their shared meeting point—an anchor in the blur of their new realities—they each had their own rhythm now, shaped by work, routine, and questions they still couldn't answer.
But something had started to change.
Not in any obvious way. It wasn't like waking up to find the sky turned purple or discovering that gravity had reversed. It was subtler than that. A feeling in the air. A shift just beneath the surface, like a forgotten song trying to break through static.
⸻
Louis – A Voice on the Phone
Louis sat behind the checkout counter at Toys R Us, spinning a bouncy ball between his fingers. Business was slow today, and most of the kids who came in just wanted to play with the demo toys and leave with sticky fingers and wide eyes.
The phone rang.
He picked it up without checking the caller ID. "Toys R Us, Louis speaking."
Silence. Then, a click. But just before it disconnected, he heard something—music.
It was brief, a fragment, almost like static. But beneath the fuzz, Louis could make out a few soft piano notes. Familiar ones.
His chest tightened. He stayed holding the receiver long after the call ended, trying to make sense of what he'd just heard.
When he hung up, he felt cold. Not because the store's air conditioning was too high—but because, for a split second, it was like something from the other life had called out to him.
⸻
Niall – The Wrong Reflection
Niall had always found something soothing about the clinic. The constant hum of fluorescent lights, the clean tools lined up in perfect rows. But that day, as he washed his hands in the sink after a particularly tricky filling, he looked up into the mirror and froze.
His reflection blinked.
He hadn't.
He leaned forward, staring into his own eyes, trying to rationalize what he had just seen. Maybe he was tired. Maybe the overhead light flickered just at the wrong moment. But something about the reflection didn't sit right.
And for a brief moment, he swore he saw something behind his mirrored self—dim lights, wires, and walls painted deep red, like a backstage room.
Then it was gone.
His stomach twisted. What the hell is happening to us?
⸻
Zayn – Painted Memories
Zayn's studio had always been his sanctuary. But lately, his paintings had taken a darker turn. He wasn't sure why. They just came out that way—long, distorted shadows, places he didn't remember visiting, faces half-covered in fog.
He was halfway through a large canvas when he realized what he was painting.
The cabin.
The trees loomed tall in the background, the mist curling low across the forest floor. In the center, the same crooked cabin from Chapter 2—weathered wood, broken windows, the door slightly ajar.
He hadn't meant to paint it. But his hands had done it anyway, as if they remembered something his mind didn't.
He dropped the brush and took a step back.
"We're slipping," he whispered to himself. "Or maybe we're waking up."
⸻
Harry – A Dream of the Past
Harry's nights had always been peaceful in this world. After long days at the bakery, he usually fell into a deep sleep, the kind you didn't wake from easily.
But that night, the dream came.
He stood on a stage. A massive crowd screamed before him. Lights flashed. Smoke swirled. He held a microphone. And beside him, the others—Liam, Niall, Zayn, Louis—just like it used to be. The music roared in his chest.
Then the lights exploded.
He stumbled backward, the world shattering around him like glass, each fragment showing another version of his life: the bakery, the cabin, a white room with wires and monitors, a mirror that didn't reflect.
He woke with a start, drenched in sweat.
The sun was just beginning to rise, and outside his window, the street was quiet. But the echo of the crowd still rang in his ears.
That was real, he thought. I know it was.
⸻
Liam – The Fire That Wasn't
Liam had responded to dozens of calls since arriving in this world. But the one that night was different.
A small apartment fire on the east end. Nothing too serious—at least, that's what the call said.
But when he arrived, the building was completely intact. No smoke, no heat, not even the smell of something scorched. The place was cold and empty, like no one had lived there in years.
He radioed it in, but something about the silence on the other end made his skin crawl.
Inside the building, he found a single object in the center of the floor: a CD.
Dusty. No label. Just like the empty case Harry had found in the cabin.
He picked it up carefully and tucked it into his coat.
Something was shifting. Something was calling them back.
⸻
Back at the Studio
That evening, they all returned to the studio again. One by one, like they were pulled there by instinct, by memory, by something stronger than words.
Louis told them about the phone call.
Niall shared what he saw in the mirror.
Zayn brought the painting.
Harry recounted the dream.
Liam placed the CD gently on the table in the center of the room.
They all stared at it for a long time, not saying a word.
"This place," Harry said finally, "it's more than just a studio."
"It's a link," Zayn whispered. "Between us and... wherever we came from."
Louis leaned forward. "We need to play it."
"Play what?" Liam asked. "There's no writing on it. We don't even know what it is."
Harry turned slowly toward the control booth. "We play it anyway."
Zayn crossed the room, loaded the CD into the player, and pressed a button.
Static. Then a faint hum.
Then music.
Soft at first—just a piano. Then voices layered beneath, warped and stretched, like a memory underwater.
But slowly, it became clearer.
It was them.
Their voices.
A song they had never recorded in this world.
A song they remembered.
Louis stared at the speakers, his heart racing. "It's us. It's the band."
Niall looked around at the others. "You all remember this too, right? This isn't just me?"
One by one, they nodded.
The music filled the room, powerful and strange and beautiful. It was like something had been unlocked—like a key had turned in the lock of their minds.
Memories flooded in.
Not all at once, but in fragments—flashes of tour buses, stages, laughter, shared secrets, late-night songwriting sessions, fans, heartbreak, triumph.
A different life. A real one.
When the song ended, the silence that followed felt holy.
Liam spoke first. "I don't think this world is fake."
Harry nodded. "No. But it's not our world either."
Zayn looked at the CD player. "It's a piece of something bigger. Like... breadcrumbs."
Louis stood up, suddenly full of urgency. "We need to follow the trail."
Niall grinned, that old spark back in his eyes. "Then let's get moving."
For the first time since they arrived, they weren't uncertain.
They had a purpose.
They had a song.
And now, they had hope.