A/N: Thank you all for the first reviews! This is a story where all is slowly revealed, so things will be a little confusing at first. I welcome your guesses after this chapter.

From: SCI

To: ALL_RESIDENTS_Section_1

Subject: New Resident

Good morning,

You may soon notice a new resident named Erik. He is like you but with one important difference. He does not remember the true Before and is not aware of his Connection. This is intentional and an important component of his wellbeing. Erik's case is quite unique and very important for science, medicine, and humanity. Please do not draw his attention to the Connection as it will only create pain and confusion. Otherwise, please continue as usual and make Erik as comfortable as possible. It will take him some time to adjust. Draw his attention to the present, and SCI will take care of the rest. You will find him to be quite talented and intelligent. Befriend him and be kind :)

Thank you so very much,

SCI

"Save the 6th Street Theater! It's been here for seventy years! Save it! Don't let this beautiful piece of architecture be lost forever! All for a parking garage!" Christine thrust out flyers toward pedestrians covered in hats and scarves. She tried to add some volume to her normally quiet voice. It sounded shrill in her ears. "Please help me save the theater!"

Everyone ignored her.

Temperatures were five degrees below freezing. Everyone was too cold and distracted to pay any attention. She would have been better off doing this in April, but it would be too late by then. Her cheeks and lips were numb.

"Save the theater!" she called to a man with glasses and a briefcase.

He harrumphed and moved faster. "Not interested in what you're selling."

"I'm not selling anything! I just want you to sign my petition." He was already far down the sidewalk. "Ugh," she muttered. This was hopeless. Maybe she could go inside a mall. Security would probably kick her out, but it was worth a shot.

Who was she kidding? This wasn't going to happen. Her sanctuary for the last three years would soon be gone forever, reduced to a pile of dusty rubble. All because a new outdoor shopping center had opened two blocks away, and they wanted more parking. Whoever owned it had more money and influence than she ever would.

She had already been standing out there for two hours. Gathering up her flyers into gloved hands, Christine turned to leave. She ran into someone. "Oof!" they exclaimed in unison.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking up and into the face of a guy her own age. A very attractive guy. "I didn't see you."

He laughed. "I'm sorry, too. I wanted to see what you were doing."

"Really?" His midnight blue jacket was expensive, probably from one of those athletic stores where rich people bought all their ski equipment. She felt a little embarrassed. Luckily, her face was red from the cold, so he couldn't see her blushing. "Well, um. I'm-I'm trying to save this theater. I've been working there for several years, mostly administrative stuff, but I've gotten a few small roles. I love this place. It's like my other home. They're tearing it down to build more parking. Everyone else has pretty much given up on it. But here I am. One last stand, I guess." She shrugged and felt small.

He looked down at her flyer and studied it. "That's too bad. They're tearing a lot of the old stuff down, huh?"

"Yeah. It's terrible. There won't be any history left soon."

"I know." He scratched his nose. "I don't think I've ever been here. What do they have?"

"Everything. Um. Musicals. Ballet. Shakespeare." She grinned as she remembered a way to make it more interesting. "It's spooky, too. Or it used to be. A year ago, there were rumors that it was haunted. I mean, I never saw or heard anything, but other people did." Apparently, someone had also died there, but she didn't include that in the story. "It's such a neat place. I'd give anything to save it."

"Hm." He flipped the flyer over. There was nothing on the back, so he looked up. He smiled. His cheeks were also red from the cold. His eyes were bright blue. "What's your name?"

"Christine."

"Tell you what, Christine. I might be able to help. How long do we have?"

"About two months before they start tearing it down."

"Okay. So how about this Saturday, you give me a tour of this place. Any time of day. Then we'll see what we can do."

She hesitated. "You think you could really help?"

He scratched the back of his head. His stocking hat felt off and into the snow. He quickly scooped to pick it up. "Yeah, I do. I'm…I know…Well, that's not important. Yeah, I think I could help."

"Okay. What's your name?"

"Raoul."

"Raoul. Nice to meet you."

"Great to meet you, too, Christine."

She gave him her cell number and watched him walk off. Going into a half empty building with a stranger was probably not the safest thing to do, but she'd make sure it was daylight and that other people were nearby. Could he really help?

It was getting windier, colder, and everyone was taking shelter. It was time to go home. Christine trudged four blocks through the snow to the bus stop. Only one homeless man was passed out on the bench, newspapers covering him. She stood at a distance from him, arms folded against her chest.

Raoul probably wouldn't even call. Maybe he was one of those guys who liked to collect phone numbers for an ego boost.

The bus smelled of exhaust, but at least it was warmer inside. She took a seat at the far back and hoped no one would bother her. Her legs ached from standing so long. She settled into the leather seat and closed her eyes, almost wishing the ride would last forever.

She didn't like being home. That was why she had offered to come out even on a miserable day. She had been trying to save up for a security deposit on a cute loft, but community college and living expenses sapped most of her earnings. At twenty-one, she was stuck living with her mother.

Her mother had gone kind of crazy after her father died two years ago. Christine had been very sad, nearly depressed, but she had kept her sanity.

And hygiene.

The bus stop was three blocks from the apartment, and Christine walked slowly to her final destination. The evidence of her mother's deterioration greeted her at the front door. Stacks of newspapers and magazines were in the entryway, some dated back to three years ago. Empty plastic bottles and aluminum cans spilled out from the living room. A grey tabby cat hissed at her and ran by. At least her mother wasn't hoarding animals. There were only two cats in the house, neither of which liked Christine very much.

Shaking her head, she made her way through the mess. A can crunched beneath her rubber boot.

"Is that you?" Denise called from the bedroom. The television played, probably a sitcom rerun.

Christine froze. "Yeah."

"Did you eat?"

"Yeah," Christine lied. She just wanted to take off her wet clothes and sleep.

"Did you get me anything?"

"No…"

There was no response after that. Her mother was probably pouting. She was like a child these days.

Christine went into her room. It had been the last clean place, but her mother had started storing and stacking boxes there. Her father's things.

After changing into some long-sleeved pajamas, she went online and checked her bank account. $238.45. Enough to survive. Not enough for her own place.

She turned on some soft rock, enough to drown out the sound of the television, and curled up on the bed. The wind whistled outside. Occasionally, she felt a cold draft of air. She got up once that evening to grab a handful of potato chips and some string cheese.

It was morning before she knew it. Christine was awoken by the sound of her phone buzzing. With blurry vision, she glanced at the newest text message.

Hey! It's Raoul. Can I meet you Saturday at 10?

She couldn't believe it. She blinked several times to make sure it wasn't a dream. Should she wait an hour to respond so she wouldn't look desperate? Christine waited five minutes. Yeah! Sounds great. See you there!

When she got up, she found her mom sitting on a cloth folding chair in the living room. The mess surrounded her. Denise glanced up. Her half blonde, half grey hair lay in tangles over her shoulders.

"Hi, Mom."

"Morning," she murmured.

Christine asked the same question she did every day. "Want me to clean up anything for you?"

Denise waved her away. "No. I'll take care of it. Don't touch anything. You always lose my stuff."

"All right." She knew better than to argue.

"Could I have a twenty?" Denise asked. "I want to buy some lottery tickets. Powerball is up to five hundred million."

"Yeah." Christine slowly opened up her billfold and handed a crumpled twenty to her mother.

"Thank you, sweetheart. Don't know what I'd do without you."

Christine shook her head. Her mother sat in this mess all day living in a dream world. Dreams of her husband magically coming back to life. Dreams of winning the lottery. Dreams of anywhere but here.

Christine tried to cling to reality. Her classes were real and would hopefully lead to a job. The theater was real, at least for another of couple of months. That text from Raoul was real. Who was he, and why did he think he could help? Please don't be a creepy guy.

There had to be hope left. There had to be a reason to keep going.

Still, reality sucked sometimes.

It was a piano bar, but no one ever played the piano. The shiny instrument sat to the side of the room, in a corner, untouched and unnoticed.

"Does anyone play?" Corey finally asked one night, glancing at it from his stool.

"Nope," said Ken. "I'm not musical at all. I can't even whistle."

"I played the flute in high school," said Leigh. "Don't think that translates to the piano."

"I took one year of lessons," said Alice. "I think I could get through Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

"Then you beat all of us," stated Ken with a grin. "Now you have to play."

"I'm not playing that in front of everyone," Alice replied. There were at least ten other customers.

"I dare you," said Ken. "Play the song." He could be so obnoxious, especially after a couple drinks.

"No."

"I'll pay for your drink," he replied.

"How about for a month you pay for my drinks?" she asked.

"Deal."

"Seriously?" Alice rolled her eyes. "Okay. Fine. I'm holding you to it. You'll regret this when you're sober." With a sigh, she hopped off her stool and walked over to the piano. She badly tapped out the children's song. When she looked up, half the bar was grinning at her. The smiles were good-natured, though. No one else had ever played that piano. Maybe they liked the sound of it, even if it was bad. There were few artists and musicians around these parts.

Ken reluctantly payed for her drinks that month. And, yes, he regretted the bargain once his hangover was gone.

That was the only time anyone ever played the piano.

Until nearly a year later.

Corey, Ken, Leigh, and Alice met at their usual spot, sipping beers and cocktails and discussing their work or whatever was going on with life. But mostly work. Experiments and papers and spreadsheets and statistics.

Suddenly, the sound rang into the air, a cascade of notes. Everyone sharply glanced up, data points and t-tests forgotten.

The guy looked like he was twenty, twenty-one. Dark hair. Dark eyes with a flicker of yellow. Or maybe that was just the dim light reflecting off his irises. He was playing quickly, his hands a blur over the keys, and it was the most beautiful sound in the world. They were stunned, hypnotized for the next ten minutes. A waterfall of wonderful music that broke into their carefully structured lives.

Then it ended. The whole room was silent. The guy stood and glanced up at the room. He visibly swallowed and took a quick step in the direction of the door. Before he could leave, everyone loudly applauded. Someone whistled. He froze for a second but then moved toward the door again.

Ken was the first to speak to him. "Hey! Come over here!" The guy looked up and hesitated. "Yeah, you. Come over here." After another pause, the guy slowly obeyed. He looked between them. "Have a seat. I'll buy you a drink. Are you old enough? It doesn't matter. What's your name?"

"You're going to give him a seizure," said Alice.

It took a moment for him to reply. There was a spark of something in his eyes. Fear? Confusion? Disorientation? "What's your name?" Ken repeated.

"Erik." It was nearly a whisper.

They all flinched and exchanged long glances. Alice knew they must also be remembering that message they had received months ago. She had almost forgotten about it. Please do not draw his attention to the Connection as it will only create pain and confusion.

"How long have you been here?" Corey asked, his words slow and carefully chosen.

"I don't know," Erik said with a shrug. "I think I moved here…six months ago?" He blinked twice.

"It's nice to meet you, Erik," said Alice. "You play really, really well." That was an understatement.

"Thank you." He glanced back toward the door. "But I need to leave."

"Why?" asked Ken. "Hang out for a while."

"No." Erik stepped backwards. "I'm going." He glanced around. "It's crowded here," he mumbled. Erik turned and literally ran out the door. It shut behind him. The rest of the bar returned to their conversations.

"Weird kid," Leigh said.

"I like him," said Ken. "He adds a little color to this place."

"He wears all black," Leigh replied.

"You know what I mean."

And they all did know.

Alice saw him a few more times over the next months, often at the piano bar. He would always play when he came in. Everyone looked forward to it. People would come every night just for a chance to hear him. They were starved for live music, especially music like that.

Alice would sometimes see him walking by himself on the sidewalk, his eyes on the ground. He wore pants and long sleeves even when it was sunny and seventy-five degrees outside, which it was a lot of the time. He kept to himself unless they waved him over to their table. He was quiet, only giving one word answers to their carefully asked questions.

"He seems older," said Alice one evening, after Erik had just left. They had managed to pull a few more details out of him. He also worked a little at the University, completing research at the psychiatry and neuroscience departments. But most of his time was spent on his music.

"What do you mean?" asked Corey. "He looks younger than us. He can't be more than twenty-three."

"No," Alice said. "He doesn't literally look older. But something about the way he acts. And his face…"

"What about it?" asked Leigh. "I think he's kind of cute. Like a lost puppy."

"I don't know. Never mind." Alice had wanted to say that his face looked off, maybe not completely real, sort of like a doll's face. But that comment would have been confusing to them.

Because nothing was completely real here.