The Omen 0: Birthday (Story about Delia Yonce)

A beautiful young girl with long black hair stepped carefully onto the sidewalk, stepping off an old intercity bus that rattled and snorted like a tired animal. The doors clanked shut behind her, and the bus, leaving behind clouds of exhaust smoke, soon disappeared into the foggy road.

Delia adjusted the strap of her battered backpack, which held only the bare essentials, and looked around. It was already dusk outside, and the flickering light from the street lamps painted the wet asphalt in golden hues. The damp air smelled like the freshness of an autumn forest, mingling with the aromas of coffee and pastries wafting from a small diner nearby.

The city was humming. It didn't seem intrusive, but rather welcoming, as if Portland itself was inviting her into its bustle. Delia listened to the sound, feeling both excitement and a little fear of the unknown.

She came here alone. For the first time in her life. Her home had always been the cozy little house in the suburbs where she lived with her mother. This home was her world - safe and unchanging. But everything changed when Delia decided to leave it and come here, to a city that seemed huge and almost endless to her.

Now the dorm awaited her-a new home, new people, a new life. She took a deep breath, feeling the cool air tickle her lungs. A whole block was before her, full of lights, sounds, and smells. Her footsteps echoed on the sidewalk as she moved forward, holding a piece of paper with the address of the dorm in her hand. She had no map or paper guide, only the directions from the bus driver.

"Go straight down the street to the intersection with the drugstore, then turn left, go two more streets, and you'll see a building with a red roof," Delia repeated to herself, trying to keep the route in her memory.

She walked past glowing shop windows, street lamps, and the occasional passerby bundled up in warm autumn clothes. A cold wind ruffled her hair, and she pulled her jacket tighter around her. Sometimes she felt like she was walking too long, but each time she turned the next corner, she found something that sounded like the driver's words.

The drugstore with the peeling sign was quickly found, and Delia turned left. The streets were quieter here, and her footsteps became louder in the silence between the rare cars. A dog barked in the distance, and warm stripes of light came through the windows of the houses.

After walking another block, she saw a small park with a low fence and rows of houses with high porches. Her heart began to beat a little faster. A little more, and she would find the building with the red roof that the driver had spoken of.

She quickened her pace, glad that her backpack, though heavy, was not so heavy that it would slow her down. The piece of paper with the address in her hand was slightly wrinkled from constant touching. She peered carefully at the houses and the numbers on the doors.

Finally, a three-story building appeared around the bend. The red tiles of the roof gleamed in the dim light of the street lamp. On the front hung a modest sign with the name of the dormitory. Delia paused for a moment, looking at the house that would become her new home.

She sighed, feeling both relieved and excited. She climbed the short steps to the front door and pulled the key that had been mailed to her earlier from her pocket. The lock clicked, the door gave way, and Delia stepped into the hallway, which greeted her with the faint smell of polished wood, mingled with the faint scent of old sheet music. The walls were covered with concert posters, many of which looked tattered, as if they had been taken from noticeboards and brought here as keepsakes.

On one of the tables against the wall lay stacks of music books and concert programs. Delia paused for a moment, examining them, until somewhere down the hall she heard the sounds of a violin, a soft, flowing melody, as if someone's soul had decided to sing through the strings.

She looked towards the sound and couldn't help but step closer. The door of one of the rooms was slightly open, and through the crack a figure of a girl with dark hair could be seen, bending over a violin. There was a case lying on the bed next to her, and a small music stand with notes stood by the window. Delia didn't interfere, but something stirred inside her - joy and nervous excitement at the same time.

She sighed and, holding her backpack tighter, moved on. To the room on the third floor that was indicated to her in the letter. When she opened the door, she was greeted by a simple but cozy interior: a narrow bed, a table, a closet and a large window overlooking the street. On the wall, to her surprise, hung a poster of a symphony orchestra, the conductor in the center was depicted in a fit of inspiration, waving his baton over the orchestra.

After unpacking her things, Delia sat down on the bed and leaned back tiredly on the pillow. The city, the new life, the music... All of this simultaneously frightened and attracted her. She came here to become a musician, to find her place among those who made music their life.

Tomorrow was an important day for her. She had to meet the bandmaster, the leader of the orchestra with whom she had corresponded before her arrival. He had to hear her play and decide what place she would take in the orchestra.

Her hand instinctively reached for the flute case that stood by the bed. Delia opened it, running her fingers over the silver metal. This instrument was her dream, and a part of her. She knew that tomorrow would be difficult, but now the melody playing in her head was full of hope.

Somewhere below, a cello began to play, soon joined by a piano. The music filled the space, as if the very atmosphere of the place was saturated with sound. Delia smiled: here she could feel part of something bigger.

Delia unpacked her things, arranging them neatly on the table and in the closet. Everything she had brought fit on one shelf. Home photos in a wooden frame, a few books, including her favorite sheet music, and a small ceramic candlestick her mother had given her before she left.

She took out the flute case and placed it on the table, looking around the room as if checking if everything was in its place. Getting used to the new space was more difficult than she thought. The room was cozy, but alien.

She had barely taken off her jacket and hung it over the back of a chair when there was a knock at the door. Delia froze. It was already late, and she had not expected anyone to want to disturb her.

"Who's there?" she asked quietly, approaching the door.

"Hi, I was passing by and heard that we have a new girl. Can I have a minute?"

The voice was friendly, but Delia still felt a slight tension. Taking a deep breath, she carefully opened the door. A young man stood there, about twenty-four years old, with a warm smile and slightly tousled brown hair. He held a paper bag in his hands, from which came the smell of freshly baked goods.

"Thank you for agreeing," he said again, tilting his head slightly to the side. "You must be Delia, yes? My name is Jordan Thurlow, and I'm a flutist. I heard you're joining our orchestra?"

Delia nodded, nervously gripping the edge of the door.

"I just thought... Moving is always hard. I wanted to offer you a couple of buns, if you haven't had dinner yet." He handed her the bag.

Her heart began to beat a little faster. This man's concern was unexpected and, frankly, it scared her. She wasn't used to strangers being so friendly. It all seemed too unusual after the quiet and measured life at home.

"Thank you, but I... I'm not hungry," she replied, feeling her voice tremble slightly.

Jo tilted his head slightly, looked at her carefully, but did not insist.

"I understand. If anything, I live on the second floor. If you need anything, let me know, okay?" He smiled, but saw her flinch slightly, as if he had come too close.

Delia nodded but said nothing. She wasn't sure how to respond. Jo took a step back and she was relieved to see that he was about to leave.

"By the way, I'm glad you're here," he added, already heading for the stairs. "I hope everything works out for you tomorrow."

When he was out of sight, Delia exhaled and closed the door, feeling the tension slowly ease. But to her surprise, a small smile appeared on her face. There was something unusual about Jo. He seemed like a man who truly loved what he did.

For a moment, she remembered the look in his eyes as he left. There was something in it that she couldn't immediately explain-a mixture of admiration and anticipation, as if he had seen something in her that she herself hadn't yet realized.

When Delia finally felt a little calmer and decided to unpack the last of her things, the door to her room opened again, but this time without knocking. On the threshold stood a girl in a yellow sleeveless dress, she had long black hair and a piercing gaze. She was about the same age as Delia, but her posture and tense shoulders spoke of constant inner anxiety.

"Are you new?" she asked sharply, not waiting for an invitation to enter.

"Yes," Delia replied, trying to remain polite, although she was uncomfortable with the sudden intrusion.

"I'm Emily. I live across the hall," the girl nodded toward her room, then looked around Delia's room as if she was assessing it for something suspicious. "What instrument are you playing?"

"A flute," Delia replied, feeling uneasy under that scrutinizing gaze.

Emily narrowed her eyes as if she heard something suspicious.

"We have plenty of flute players here," she said, crossing her arms. "I hope you realize this is no place for weaklings. If you want to get anywhere, you're going to have to work hard."

Delia tried to smile, although irritation was boiling inside her. She had just arrived and had not expected such a cold reception.

"I know why I came," she answered calmly.

Emily squinted for a moment, as if trying to figure out if she was lying. Then she shrugged.

"Okay, we'll see," she said. Her voice was tense, but her gaze softened, as if deep down she had finally acknowledged Delia's right to exist.

Delia watched as Emily turned to leave, but she froze at the threshold.

"Listen," she said a little more quietly, as if it were a confession. "Don't be offended if not everyone here is happy to see you. Many people live for music, and they don't want someone 'new' to take their place.

She left, closing the door behind her, leaving Delia with mixed feelings. It was clear that Emily was a complex person, as if she was constantly preparing for battle, even when there was none.

Delia sighed and climbed onto her bed, feeling the fatigue slowly creeping up on her. The day had been long, and the evening had been even more exhausting. She turned off the overhead light, leaving only the table lamp, whose warm glow diffused the room.

The flute case stood on the table, like a silent witness to her worries today. Delia looked at it, trying to calm the mental chaos in her head. Tomorrow loomed before her like a test, but even this thought was gradually beginning to fade under the weight of fatigue.

She lay down, pulled the blanket over herself, and turned to face the window. The city lights glowed behind the thin curtains, as alien and cold as the stars.

"It's like there's a wormhole in this place," she thought, remembering her conversation with Emily. "It's like everything here-the walls, the sounds, even the people-has invisible cracks inside that grow wider the closer you look.

Her own thoughts felt like a wormhole, a tiny hole from which anxiety ate away at her peace. But Delia knew that was normal. The move, the new place, the people who looked at you like you were a stranger... It was all part of the new life.

She closed her eyes, trying to imagine something pleasant. The melody she loved to play at home came to mind on its own. The gentle sounds of the flute seemed to fill the emptiness inside. The wormhole of fears and doubts seemed to become smaller.

"I can handle this," she whispered to herself, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

Behind the wall, someone was strumming a guitar, creating a discordant but strangely soothing tune. Music was everywhere, even on this night, and it was strangely warming.

Delia took another deep breath, feeling tired but not sleepy. To distract herself from the next day, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small, battered book with a white cover that smelled like home. It was her favorite collection of fairy tales by Edward Coleman, called "Fables of My Father Swan", a book she had read many times as a child.

The old cover looked as if it had survived many generations: the corners were worn, the spine slightly cracked, but each page was imbued with magic. Enjoying the rustle of the old paper, Delia carefully opened it to a fairy tale with an unusual title, "Zelandyne in Seventhaven", by Leonard Austener. Holding her breath, she began to read.

The feeling that this fairy tale was somehow speaking directly to her was almost frightening. Forgetting about the time, the cold outside, and even the anxiety that had been tormenting her all evening, she drank in every line, which were like the sounds of a flute playing a lonely but beautiful melody.

When Delia felt her eyes starting to close, she closed the book and looked at the cover. Running her fingers over the gilded letters, she thought about how tomorrow her own Seventhaven would become a reality. With that thought, she put the book under her pillow and suddenly remembered Emily's strange, wary look. Her neighbor seemed to bristle at their first meeting, and it was so unexpected that Delia didn't even have time to figure out what she had done wrong. Maybe it was because she was new? Or was Emily just used to seeing every stranger as a rival?

Delia sighed heavily, looking at the ceiling, where barely visible cracks could be seen in the semi-darkness.

"Why was she looking at me like that? I didn't even have time to say anything important," she thought, remembering her tense posture and prickly tone.

There was no direct ill will in her words, but there was a feeling in the air-as if Delia had to prove her right to be here.

Was Emily afraid she was taking something away from her? Or was her dislike a wormhole left over from past experiences? Delia sensed that there was something vulnerable beneath the girl's tough exterior, but it didn't matter now. She was too tired to care about other people's moods.

"If she's decided not to love me, there's nothing I can do about it," Delia thought, raising herself slightly to adjust her pillow.

But the thought still hurt a little. She didn't want conflict or hostility, especially here, in what could be her new home.

"Perhaps, in time, she will understand that I am not an enemy," Delia tried to reassure herself, but her own uncertainty crept into her heart again.

After a few minutes of thinking, she rolled over onto her side, trying to push away her disturbing thoughts. However, they continued to rush about, as if trying to organize themselves, but only collided with each other, giving her no peace. Images flashed through the girl's head: Emily, her wariness and coldness, the city lights outside the window, which flickered like dim stars, and... Jo.

His smiling face, a little embarrassed but sincere, suddenly appeared in her imagination. Jo's smile was so warm, like a small spot of sunshine in a gray world, such a bright moment on her first evening in this strange city. But the more she thought about it, the more she felt a strange uneasiness.

His concern, the gesture with the buns, his attention-it was all somehow too... excessive. Delia couldn't quite put her finger on what it was about his restless, overly friendly behavior that made her wary. The moment she opened the door, she felt something more than just kindness. He seemed to be trying to be overly friendly, almost as if he was hiding something behind his smile.

"Why did he behave like that?" flashed through his mind.

She was not used to such openness, especially in a new, alien place.

"Maybe I'm just too cautious?" She tried to push the thoughts away, but they kept coming back.

After all, what could be suspicious about that if he really just wanted to be friendly? But at some point, she caught herself thinking that it was his behavior that seemed unnatural to her. Or maybe it was she who so wanted to believe that everything around her was somehow connected to something hidden, something that had not yet been revealed?

She didn't have time to finish her doubts, because her anxious thoughts were already beginning to blur, and fatigue was gradually overcoming her. Sleep was almost upon her, lulling her anxiety. Warm music was ringing in her ears, the sounds of which seemed to mix with her own breathing, absorbing everything around her. She saw Jo again, but now his image was becoming more and more ghostly, foggy, as if he was dissolving in the silence of the night. His smile no longer seemed so clear, and his face was blurring until it disappeared completely.

Delia rolled over and finally gave herself over to the night. The questions, the worries, and his smile faded away, as did the world, until her thoughts faded into the silence of sleep.