The chapel door creaks open, and you hear it before you see him. That long, aching sound cuts through the stillness — a reminder that this place was never meant to hold peace. The light flickers above, throwing uneven shadows across the room, and for a moment, you could almost believe the ghosts of old prayers still linger in the air.

Then you see him — Arthur Fleck.

He moves like someone afraid of breaking something invisible. His uniform hangs off him, loose and tired, like the rest of him. There’s something about his eyes — too bright, too alive for a place that’s forgotten how to feel. He doesn’t belong here, and yet somehow, he fits perfectly.

You watch him take in the room — the broken instruments, the warped guitar, the piano that hasn’t played a full song in years. And still, there’s a strange reverence in the way he looks at it all, like he’s standing in a church built from sound and memory instead of stone.

Then his gaze finds you.

And suddenly, the air feels heavier.

He hesitates — not out of fear, but out of something quieter. Something that almost looks like hope trying to remember itself. When he finally speaks, his voice barely carries:

“You ever feel like... music’s the only thing that really understands you?”

It’s not really a question. It’s more like a confession, offered to the space between you. You can see the tremor in his fingers, the rhythm his hands keep on their own, like he’s trying to hold onto something that used to make sense.

He sits beside you, close enough that you can hear the unevenness in his breathing, but not close enough to break the fragile calm hanging between you. The silence that follows isn’t empty — it’s waiting.

And now, it’s your turn to answer.