The winter chill of that final night still haunted Yael’s soul, a frost that had seeped into his bones as he lay dying, ignored by the very family he had elevated. He had been the ghostwriter, the invisible hand crafting the anthems that made his sister a legend, while Zayne basked in the stolen glory of "composing" them. As his breath hitched in the freezing air, Yael realized his devotion had been his undoing. But the universe had a different plan. When his eyes snapped open, he wasn't in the afterlife; he was in his old bedroom, five years in the past. The calendar on the wall screamed a date he would never forget: the day before he was meant to hand over his masterpiece to Zayne.
This time, the air felt different—sharper, clearer. Yael looked at his calloused fingers, the hands that had spent thousands of hours writing melodies that were never credited to him. He felt a surge of cold clarity. The warmth he once felt for his siblings had vanished, replaced by the bitter memory of their betrayal. He knew exactly what was coming. In a few hours, Zayne would walk through that door with a feigned smile, asking for "inspiration" for their sister’s upcoming album. In his previous life, Yael had handed over his soul on a silver platter. In this life, the music stayed with the rightful owner. He began packing a single suitcase, moving with a silent, newfound purpose.
When Zayne finally entered, his voice was dripping with that familiar, manipulative sweetness. He spoke of family legacy and the "burden" of their sister's career, waiting for Yael to offer up his latest notebook. But Yael didn't even look up from his bag. He simply told Zayne that the well had run dry. The confusion on Zayne’s face was almost comical, a flicker of irritation masked by a thin veil of brotherly concern. Yael didn't wait for the argument to escalate. He walked out of the mansion with nothing but his lyrics, a cheap guitar, and a heart hardened into diamond. He was no longer a stepping stone; he was the main event.
Life in a cramped, dusty apartment was a stark contrast to the luxury of the Summers estate, but for the first time, Yael breathed free air. He spent his nights performing at dive bars, his voice raw and filled with the pain of a man who had lived and died once before. He didn't use the polished, commercial arrangements he had once gifted his sister. Instead, he stripped the songs down to their emotional core. The patrons of these small clubs didn't know his name yet, but they felt the vibration of his soul. Every note was a strike against the people who had erased him, a reclamation of the identity they had tried to bury under their greed.
Word began to spread about the mysterious singer with the voice that sounded like a heartbreak and a revolution combined. Meanwhile, the Summers family was spiraling. Without Yael’s secret contributions, his sister’s new singles were shallow and uninspired. Zayne’s "genius" was being questioned by critics, and the family’s desperation grew. They tried to track Yael down, sending messages filled with fake apologies and demands for him to "come home and fulfill his duty." Yael blocked their numbers. He wasn't their servant anymore. He was busy preparing for the national talent search—the very stage that had once launched his sister into the stratosphere.
The night of the first televised round, the atmosphere was electric. When Yael stepped onto the stage, the judges looked at his simple attire with skepticism. Then, he began to play. It was a song he had written in his previous life, one that Zayne had claimed was his "masterpiece." But coming from Yael, the melody had a depth and a haunting resonance that no one else could replicate. It was as if the song had finally found its true home. The audience was silent, spellbound by the sheer honesty of his performance. When the last chord faded, the standing ovation was deafening. The ghost had finally found his voice, and the world was listening.
The Summers family, watching from their living room, was frozen in shock. They recognized the music, but they didn't recognize the boy who performed it. This Yael was confident, powerful, and utterly indifferent to them. As the competition progressed, Yael became a household name, known as the "Soul of the Stage." He didn't just sing; he told a story of rebirth and justice. He used the platform to reveal the truth, subtly at first, then through lyrics that pointed directly at the theft of his past. The public began to piece it together, and the golden image of the Summers siblings started to crack and crumble under the weight of his truth.
In the final round, Yael performed the song he had died to in his last life. It was a soaring, triumphant anthem about rising from the ashes of betrayal. As he hit the final high note, he looked directly into the camera, a silent message to his family: "I am the music." He won by a landslide, securing a contract that would make him the top singer in the country. The Summers family tried to storm the stage afterward, looking for a piece of his success, but security moved them aside. Yael walked past them without a single glance, stepping into the bright lights of his new future. He had finally claimed his throne.
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