Meanwhile, far away, years ago—
"Mommy, wait up!" Dandy Leroy called, nearly losing a bag of plantains as he thundered up the stairs. The fifth step creaked—he knew to skip it, but his foot landed anyway and the board howled, echoing down the narrow hall.
Zora Leroy, hair twisted in a scarf, smiled from the landing, keys jingling in one hand, a bag of black-eyed peas in the other. "Dandy, careful, the neighbors'll think you're stampeding elephants again!"
He grinned, panting, cheeks streaked with sweat and rain. "It's raining too hard to stampede."
They squeezed into the apartment, the old door's lock clicking behind them. The smell of frying plantain from Mrs. Ramirez down the hall drifted through the window, mingling with the faint, sour scent of wet coats and old sheet music. The Leroy home was no penthouse: its kitchen was half-taken by potted plants, some drooping from lack of sun, others tangling around the chipped faucet. Sheet music was tucked everywhere—between cracked tiles, under the salt canister, behind a picture of a smiling man in a suit, Dandy only barely remembered.
"Did you get the eggs?" Zora asked, peeling off her scarf. Drops of rain splattered the tile.
Dandy puffed his chest. "Eggs, cheese, and," he flourished, "a surprise." He fished a battered packet of peanut brittle from the bag, triumphant.
Zora's eyebrows shot up. "You used your pocket money?"
"I know you like it." He beamed. "We can eat it while you sing, okay?"
She ruffled his hair, softening. "You're a good boy. My rhythm's son." She bent and kissed his forehead. "Wash up, and then you can help with the rice."
He dumped his bag on the counter and darted for the sink. Over his shoulder, he asked, "Can we do 'Red River' tonight?"
She shook her head, laughing. "That old song again? One more time, then you have to learn 'Blue Waltz.'"
"Deal," he said, pinkies entwined, their old ritual.
Evenings in the Leroy home were sacred, the world outside sealed away by double locks and humming radiators. Zora, voice low and smoky, sang Ashanti lullabies, her hands tracing invisible maps on the piano keys. Dandy followed, stubby fingers finding melody, feet swinging from the cracked bench.
Tonight, thunder rattled the glass. Zora paused mid-song, brow creasing. "Hear that?"
Dandy stopped, listening. "It's just the storm, right?"
"Maybe." Her eyes drifted to the window. "Sometimes, storms are more than rain. Sometimes they're warnings."
He didn't know what to say. He played a soft, searching chord.
Zora rose suddenly and crossed to the bookshelf, drawing out a battered, locked trunk. Dandy straightened, curious.
She sat on the floor, motioning for him. "Come here."
He obeyed, dropping beside her. The trunk's old hinges groaned. A scarf wrapped in yellowed newspaper and faded silk was inside—a deep, starless blue embroidered with silver musical staves and tiny, hidden notes. Beneath it, heavier and colder, was something stranger: a revolver, old but gleaming, spiral glyphs etched deep in the barrel's metal. It looked nothing like the guns he'd seen in Harlem's corners or movies.
"Mom... why do you have a gun?" Dandy's voice was small.
Zora didn't answer immediately. She pulled the scarf free and draped it around Dandy's neck. The silk was oddly warm and humming with a strange energy.
"This belonged to your grandmother," she said, almost whispering. "She carried it out of Accra. It's a map—if you know how to read the song." She hesitated, then handed him the revolver. "And this... this is for emergencies. If anything happens, you run. You take the scarf and the Chrono Spiral, and you keep playing. The song is always with you."
He held the gun awkwardly, the weight heavy in his hands. "But I—Mom, what—?"
A crash outside. Both froze.
Zora's face hardened, her voice low and urgent. "No time. Listen to me, Dandy. If I say run, you don't argue. You get to the Blue Note or the church on 123rd and hide. Don't look back. Understand?"
He nodded, heart pounding, fingers closing around scarf and steel.
She pulled him into a hug, her breath warm at his ear. "My brave boy. My rhythm. You're all that matters."
The door exploded inward. Syndicate enforcers poured in—faces hidden behind spiral-masked bandanas, the tattoos of the Crimson Veil glinting on their wrists. A red-eyed Veilborn pushed through, skin flickering like smoke, arms shifting with every jazz note that seemed to bleed from nowhere.
"Zora Nia Leroy!" the lead enforcer barked. "Give up the song. You know what we want."
Zora was already moving, grabbing Dandy and pushing the scarf and gun into his backpack. "Go!" she hissed.
They crashed through the back window onto the fire escape, rain driving down in silver sheets. Dandy nearly slipped, but Zora hauled him upright. "Down, fast! Hold tight!"
Feet pounded behind them—metal shrieked, someone shouted, "Get the boy!"
Zora and Dandy tumbled into the alley, the storm swallowing them. Zora dragged him by the arm, weaving through puddles and dumpsters, breathless. "Just a little farther, Dandy. Almost there."
He clung to her, the Chrono Spiral cold against his ribs.
They darted through a chain-link fence, behind an abandoned bodega, skidding to a stop in a dead-end lot beneath a flickering streetlight. The sound of pursuit—shouts, heavy boots—closed in.
Zora pulled Dandy behind her. "Stay behind me. No matter what happens."
A shadow fell over them. The Veilborn, body flickering in and out of focus, stepped into the light. Red eyes burning. Its arms twisted, becoming brass saxophones, trumpet valves, claws of spiraling jazz magic.
Zora squared her shoulders. "You want the song? You'll have to take it."
The Veilborn laughed, voice echoing with a chorus of jazzmen, discordant and strange. "Songs die with singers, little bird. Harlem is ours now."
It lunged. Zora dodged, grabbed a broken pipe, and swung wildly. Metal rang on shifting flesh. The Veilborn's hand closed on her arm—she screamed, voice splitting into a thousand harmonies, shattering windows.
"Mom!" Dandy's hands shook, digging through his backpack. The scarf pulsed with music—fragments of lullabies, a melody he almost knew.
The Veilborn dragged Zora close. "The song or the boy, Zora. Choose—"
Dandy, cornered, pulled out the Chrono Spiral. His finger fumbled for the trigger.
Zora, eyes wide, managed one last cry: "Dandy, NOW!"
He squeezed. The world folded.
Time buckled, sound stretching into a single note. Dandy heard every piano key he'd ever played, his mother's laughter and tears, the city's heartbeat, the storm's thrum. The Veilborn's scream became a trumpet solo, spiraling upward. Zora's hand reached for him—then slipped away, dissolving into jazz-smoke and rain.
When the dust cleared, the lot was empty but for Dandy, soaked and shivering, scarf tangled in his fists. The Chrono Spiral fell from his hand, its barrel cooling. The rain had stopped; Harlem's neon flickered on puddles, painting him in shifting blue and gold.
Zora was gone. The only sound was his mother's lullaby, softly humming from the glowing scarf in his lap.
Dandy clutched it to his chest, the city's storm suddenly so far away.
He pressed his face into the silk and began to cry as the melody wrapped around him.
Then, as Dandy was crying in that empty lot, clutching the glowing scarf, a shadow loomed at the mouth of the alley. Through the storm haze, a man's voice—uncertain, trembling with shock—broke the silence.
"Dandy? Hey—hey, kid, what happened? Where's Zora?"
It was Amari Leroy. He wore the same old trumpet case slung across his back, his jacket heavy with rain and the smell of cheap gin. The sight of him—Zora's old friend, sometimes more than that—made something sharp twist in Dandy's chest. He could only sob harder.
Amari crouched beside him, rough hands hovering awkwardly over Dandy's shaking shoulders. "Easy now. Dandy, look at me. Where's your mother?"
"She's...she's gone! They—they took her!" Dandy wailed, voice cracking, clutching the scarf until his knuckles whitened. "I shot the monster, I did! But—she—"
Amari pulled him close, the embrace clumsy and desperate. For a moment, Dandy stiffened, then melted, letting his head fall against Amari's chest, sobs wracking his small frame.
"It's okay, it's okay... You're safe. I got you, little man," Amari murmured, though his hands shook as if holding glass. "We're gonna figure this out. I promise."
Life with Amari wasn't what Dandy expected.
He had nowhere else to go. The Sentinels never came for him. The apartment he'd called home was gone—yellow tape across the door, sheet music and photos scattered in the rain. Amari took him to his place—a creaking walk-up above a shuttered jazz bar, smelling of stale cigarettes, spilled whiskey, and sweat.
It was nothing like Zora's: the sink was always full, trumpet mutes and old records littered every surface, and the only food was takeout containers stacked beside empty gin bottles. Some nights, Amari came home late, stumbling, eyes red, still talking to Zora as if she sat in the corner, legs crossed, laughing at his jokes.
Dandy listened from his cot in the closet. Sometimes Amari would slur, "Zora, sing for me, girl, come on..." and when Dandy didn't answer, he'd get up and peer at him through the cracked door, glassy-eyed and desperate.
Once, in the dead of night, Amari crept in and sat on the cot, staring. "You got your mama's eyes, you know that? Same music in 'em. You...you remember the waltz?" His breath reeked of gin.
Dandy pulled the scarf tighter, shrinking away. "Don't touch me."
Amari's voice trembled, somewhere between pleading and angry. "Just play the song, Dandy. For me, just once—like your mama used to."
He dared not move until Amari left, footsteps heavy down the hall. That night, Dandy locked the closet from the inside, heart racing, stomach turning.
Days blurred together. Amari was out late, and Dandy left with a twenty and instructions to "keep the door locked. You hear me?" Sometimes, Amari would stagger in, swaying, and sit too close. His gaze would linger a moment too long. Dandy hated it—hated the ache, the confusion, hated Amari's shadow and the reek of gin everywhere, hated how he'd cry out Zora's name in the dark and reach for Dandy, as if he could swap their faces and pretend nothing was lost.
It came to a head one evening, thunder rumbling outside, the city flashing with broken neon. Dandy played a single, bitter note on the apartment's battered keyboard. Amari stormed in, wild-eyed, slamming the door so hard the window rattled.
"Why won't you play for me?!" he barked. "You think you're too good? Think you're her now?"
Dandy shot to his feet, hands shaking. "I'm not her! I'm not your ghost! I hate you! I hate you, Amari!" He shoved past, locked himself in the bathroom, fists pounding the tiles as tears poured down his face.
Amari shouted on the other side of the door, "Don't you talk to me like that, you ungrateful little—" His voice broke and fell to a choked sob—the silence after was heavier than thunder.
Dandy pressed the scarf to his face and screamed into the silk, a single note of misery, hoping his mother could hear it.
The days grew longer. Dandy learned to avoid Amari's moods, hide in the library after school, and keep the scarf close and the Chrono Spiral hidden at the bottom of his backpack. Sometimes, he'd find Amari in the living room, talking to shadows, calling him "Zora" by accident, reaching out in the half-dark with longing that made Dandy's skin crawl.
He avoided home whenever he could. He started running with his backpack through Harlem's rain, tracing the routes Zora had sung about, trying to feel her presence in the mural-painted alleys, in the hum of distant jazz, in the hush after a storm.
Once, a music teacher asked, "You alright, Leroy? You look like you ain't slept in a week." Dandy only shook his head, tucking the scarf deeper into his shirt.
A week after the worst of it, Amari knocked at Dandy's bedroom door—more a cupboard than a real room. The knock was soft, uncertain.
"Dandy. You awake?"
Dandy said nothing, staring at the blue scarf, tracing the musical notes with trembling fingers.
Amari tried again. "Dandy, come on. Got a letter here for you. From... from some school. Sentinel Academy or something. Bunch of fancy paper and numbers—628, whatever that means."
He shoved the envelope under the door, then laughed, the sound brittle and empty. "Probably just more trouble for you, huh?" He lurched away, the reek of gin following.
Dandy waited until he heard Amari slump into his chair, muttering, "Zora woulda known what to do. She always knew. Not me..."
For a long time, Dandy sat in silence, rain pattering against the window. He stared at the letter, then finally opened it. The words swam in front of his eyes: Sentinel Alliance Academy. Enrollment confirmed—report at sunrise, for children touched by Harlem's Veil.
His heart thudded in his chest. He could leave. He could get away.
But as he packed his things, scarf and gun hidden away, he glanced back at Amari, sprawled and snoring, and felt only a cold, hollow ache. He's broken, too, Dandy thought. But I can't save him. Not like this. Maybe not ever.
He left before dawn.
The safehouse was nothing like home: chrome, linoleum, humming lights, officers with careful voices and hands that never lingered. Dandy clung to the scarf and the heavy gun, refusing food, refusing their soft-eyed comfort. No one would say what happened to Zora—just "gone," always that word, like a door slammed in his face.
He lay in a cot, staring at the ceiling, listening to the city's pulse. Grief turned to bitterness, then to distrust. Don't need anyone, he promised himself. Trusting only gets you hurt.
That night, rain streaked neon down the window. He fell into a restless sleep, the scarf and gun cradled against his chest.
He dreams.
He wanders Harlem's rain-bright alleys, Zora's song curling through the mist, her voice echoing in empty clubs and beneath shattered streetlights. Murals along Lenox flicker, her face shining one moment, vanishing the next. He calls out, but the only answer is winding and wild music threaded with her lullabies.
The scarf in his hands glows softly, the gun hums with restless energy. Zora's voice weaves words into the storm somewhere far away: "When two hearts play in time, neon will break the Veil."
Dandy clings to the melody, promising her memory—I'll find you. Or I'll break this curse before it swallows anyone else. I swear, Mom.
Outside, Harlem's neon heartbeat throbs in the rain, echoing his vow.