The song had started badly.

Mara knew because Sean had made a face.

Not a dramatic one. Just the small expression of a musician watching somebody commit an offence against rhythm.

Chibi noticed too.

“Sean hates this one.”

“He hates lots of songs.”

“He has standards.”

“He has opinions.”

“Same thing when you’re old.”

“I can hear you,” Sean called from the table.

Chibi smiled.

“I know.”

Around them, the beer tent was loud with people singing, laughing and accomplishing absolutely nothing useful.

But Mara was watching the man at the next table.

His wife nudged him when the chorus began.

“Oh, come on. This one.”

He smiled.

But he didn’t sing.

“This used to be your favourite.”

The man looked towards the band.

“Was it?”

His wife laughed.

Then stopped.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“We played it at our wedding.”

Something changed in his face.

Not fear.

Recognition without recognition.

Then the chorus came.

And he sang every word.

Chibi frowned.

“He remembered.”

Mara shook her head.

“No.”

“He knew all the words.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

The song ended.

His wife kissed his cheek.

For a moment everything seemed normal.

Then he asked:

“Did we dance to it?”

She stared at him.

“At our wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Of course we did.”

“What was it like?”

She didn’t answer.

Neither did Mara.

They knew the man had worked for Delta Green.

Months earlier there had been an operation.

A farmhouse.

Three missing people.

A room that was larger on the inside than the building containing it.

And music.

One agent remembered silence.

Another remembered a children’s song.

The man had reported hearing his wedding song.

He entered the room at 02:13.

He came out at 02:17.

His watch said six hours had passed.

Chibi leaned towards Mara.

“Was that the song?”

“I think so.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did the room know it?”

Mara looked at him.

That was a much worse question.

There were ordinary explanations.

Terrible experiences can change what things mean to us.

A place.

A smell.

A voice.

A song.

People can remember something perfectly and still discover that the feeling attached to the memory has changed.

Mara didn’t know all the proper words for that.

Stacy did.

Mara understood something simpler.

The man remembered the song.

He remembered his wedding.

He remembered dancing.

He remembered his wife wearing flowers in her hair.

But when the music played, those memories seemed to belong to somebody else.

Chibi watched him.

“Maybe the bad room ruined the song.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe he’ll like it again.”

“Maybe.”

He waited.

“And?”

“And what?”

“You’ve got another maybe.”

Mara looked at the man.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Maybe something happened to the bit of him that liked it.”

Chibi didn’t laugh.

“Can something take that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you leave it somewhere?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can something get stuck to it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not very useful today.”

“No.”

Later, outside beneath the lights of the Wiesn, Chibi tried again.

“When people come home, they’re supposed to bring everything back.”

“Mostly.”

“Their coat.”

“Yes.”

“Their phone.”

“Yes.”

“Their keys.”

“Yes.”

“Themselves.”

Mara looked at him.

“Yes.”

“How do you check that one?”

She didn’t answer.

Delta Green knew how to ask whether something had escaped.

Whether something had followed an agent home.

Whether an object had been contained.

Whether anyone had been exposed.

But perhaps there was another question.

Not:

Did anything come home with you?

But:

Did all of you come home?

Chibi kicked at the gravel.

“Maybe he just changed.”

“Maybe.”

“People do.”

“Yes.”

“Without monsters.”

“Yes.”

“So maybe nothing took anything.”

“Maybe.”

He looked relieved.

Mara looked back towards the beer tent.

“But the room was still bigger on the inside.”

“Yes.”

“His watch still lost six hours.”

“Yes.”

“And it played a song it shouldn’t have known.”

Chibi sighed.

“So we can’t know.”

“Not yet.”

Inside, the song started again.

Hundreds of people joined the chorus.

Then Mara heard the man singing too.

Chibi smiled.

“Do you think he got it back?”

Mara listened.

“I don’t know.”

“What if nothing was taken?”

“Then there’s nothing to get back.”

“What if something came with him?”

Mara said nothing.

“What if something stayed behind?”

Still nothing.

“And what if—”

“Chibi.”

“What?”

“You’re making it worse.”

“I know.”

And somewhere among hundreds of voices, one man was trying to discover whether a song still belonged to him.

AND WHAT DO YOU THINK?

People can come back from terrible experiences changed without anything supernatural having happened.

But in Delta Green, the impossible is real too.

Something might follow you home. Something might be taken. Something might be left behind. Or perhaps nothing supernatural happened to you at all — and you simply changed.

If you remembered everything about the person you used to be, but something you once loved no longer felt like yours, how would you know whether you had changed — or whether something was actually missing?

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