One last song

Chapter 8: Static in the Sunlight

Sweden's POV

At first, I thought I was just tired.

Waking up with my clothes inside out. Missing entire conversations. Finding new scratches on my hands I couldn't explain.

Denmark joked I was sleep-summoning hedgehogs again.

But then I looked in the mirror.

And for one terrifying second—

It wasn't my face.

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The reflection blinked when I didn't. A shimmer—just a flicker—but enough.

Enough to see him.

One of my brothers.

Svea Rike.

His pale hair was soaked with rain that wasn't falling, his old blue tabard faded and torn at the edges. His eyes—my eyes—were sad. Not angry. Not frightening.

But full of a warning he couldn't speak.

And then he was gone.

Just me again.

Staring at my own shaking hands.

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By lunchtime, the whole school buzzed with tension.

I dropped my fork in the cafeteria when I heard a voice call my name—but no one was there.

Russia was quiet again. America looked sleep-deprived. Poland was scribbling protection runes on her shoes.

And Norway had started following me.

Subtly. Quietly. But not well.

I finally stopped halfway down the Language Tower stairwell and turned around.

"You don't even pretend to sneak."

He didn't deny it.

"Something's wrong with you," he said simply. "You're humming in your sleep. The seals around your bed activated last night. You almost woke half the dorm."

I blinked. "You were awake?"

He crossed his arms. "I don't sleep. I meditate."

Right. Elves.

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I sighed and slumped against the railing.

"You ever feel like you're watching yourself from the outside?" I asked. "Like... you're not completely in your body?"

Norway stared. "That's how I always feel. It's part of my magic."

"Okay but—like—badly?"

"...Oh."

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I told him everything. About the garden. The voice. The bench. The carvings. The reflection.

I expected him to mock me. Or call the nurses. Or tell Denmark I needed a soul realignment.

But he just looked down, quiet, and said:

"I think your brothers aren't as gone as you think."

That made my stomach twist.

"They're dead," I said. "They've been dead for a long time now."

He shook his head. "The dead linger. They echo. But they don't intervene. Yours are reaching across the veil. That means something's trying to reach back."

⸻

Later, when I went to my locker, I found a slip of paper.

It was old. Fragile. The kind of parchment the school stopped using centuries ago.

On it, in the same script that used to line Svea Rike's letters:

"He sees through your song now. Be careful what you play."

My guitar hummed when I touched it—like it understood.

⸻

That night, I dreamed again.

But this time, I wasn't walking alone.

This time, I wasn't being watched.

I was being followed.

⸻

To be continued...