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Chapter Text

September 5th, 1969

The phone’s ring cut through the silence of the night like a gunshot.

“Yeah?”

“Bri!There’s someone! Inside my house!” Roger’s voice was a mixture of panic and disbelief.

“Who?Tim? The landlord?”

“No!A... a… a guy! He appeared out of nowhere! Get over here now!”

Brian’s minivan cut through the streets of London, the smell of Roger’s cheap tobacco ingrained in the seats.

Brian pushed the door open. Inside, the scene was surreal. Roger, pale, was brandishing a frying pan. In front of him, kneeling in the centre of the room, was a boy with dark hair. His eyes, lined with kohl that tears had streaked, shone with terror. A deep blue robe covering his body was torn and stained with a dark, dried substance Brian didn't want to identify.

“Shhh, mate, stay still. Stay right there, don’t move,” Roger was pleading.

“Gash kash kamej ureeah urajit,”the stranger said, desperate, moving his hands in a beseeching motion.

“Mate,my God, I don’t understand a word you’re saying.” Roger lowered the pan in a gesture of frustration and surrender, looking confusedly at the dark-haired boy. “He won’t move and I can’t understand him,” Roger gasped. “He just… cries and cries and babbles.” He looked desperately at Brian, seeking an answer. He always had something to say. But this time, no words came from the curly-haired man.

      The strange boy had magically appeared, without explanation, in his apartment, and Roger thought he was going insane. Or rather, he already was going insane.

Brian, in the doorway, could only stare wide-eyed at the bizarre scene.

“Roger, who is he? What did he say? What’s going on?” Brian approached slowly, carefully, not taking his eyes off the black-haired youth.

“Ahhh,”Roger sighed. “What I told you on the phone. He just appeared here,” his tone was tired, angry, and weary. He made a face as he scratched his head.

      Brian observed the youth carefully: strange clothes, unusually large teeth, black hair and chiselled facial features. But that wasn't the main thing: he looked terrified, and his clothes were stained. Oh, yes. They were in trouble. This wasn't normal. No, it wasn't. He could be a fugitive, was the first thing Brian thought. Someone who’d been in a fight or something worse. But he needed to find out how the hell he’d gotten into Roger’s apartment.

“Roger, understand, it’s impossible for a person to just suddenly appear in your house,” Brian, sceptical, tried to make his friend understand that what he was saying was stupid.

“I saw it!”

“I think you’re high.”

“No,I’m not!”

“Fereydūn-e por-ghorur bezanad…” the stranger said.

“My God,” Brian murmured.

Brian moved closer. The young man looked up. In his eyes, Brian saw absolute confusion.

“Do you speak English?”Brian asked, slow and clear.

But there was no response.

“He’s traumatised, Roger. We have to help him.” “What about the police?His clothes are covered in blood! And what are we going to tell them? That he materialised on the sofa?” Roger’s voice was sharp.

Roger went to fetch some clothes. He handed over a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. The stranger took them with trembling hands, examining them as if they were alien artefacts.

The lesson on how to use the bathroom was a pantomime. Upon returning, the young man had managed to get dressed, but the jeans were on inside out and the t-shirt was on backwards. Roger let out a loud laugh. The stranger shrank back, humiliated.

“Roger!” Brian huffed, giving his friend a light smack on the back of the head.

“It’s not funny.”

“I know,I know!” Roger said, complaining.

The dark-haired youth seemed on the verge of tears again. Brian approached and, with a patience he didn't know he had, helped him straighten his clothes.

“You don’t speak English,” Brian stated. “Wow,you’re so clever,” Roger said sarcastically.

Brian rolled his eyes. What would they do? There was a complete stranger with them. He seemed foreign and didn't speak English, and they didn't speak his language. They didn't want trouble.

“Did you think about checking with missing persons?” Brian suggested doubtfully.

The silence in the room grew uncomfortable. The beautiful, strange young man began to pace under Brian and Roger’s odd stares.

“I… I don’t know, Brian… But he doesn’t look well. It’s very strange, but we have to do something… I think we should check his clothes; he must have some kind of pocket with some personal information.”

    Roger had finally had a useful idea. Brian went to pick up his clothes from the bathroom and ran his hand over the soft, bright blue fabric. He had never felt a cloth so soft and so beautiful. His eyes almost began to well up with tears.

“Bri… What’s wrong?” the blonde asked desperately, opening the bathroom door.

“It’s nothing,Rog… I just… I think he needs help,” Brian looked at his friend.

“Did you find anything?”

“No,it seems he has no ID, nothing. What do we do?”

Brian began to despair and the blue-eyed man started trembling slightly as he paced back and forth.

“I’m getting a beer.”

“Get me one,”Brian said tiredly, not stopping thinking about everything that was happening. What if they just put him out? But the young man seemed too innocent.

Before Roger could cross through the doorway, the dark-haired boy grabbed his shirt and pulled him back hard.

“Farrokh zad,” he murmured softly into his ear.

The blonde looked at him with a confused expression, then a fearful one, and finally a relieved one. Roger took him by the arm and stroked it gently, trying to calm him. Finding himself confused by his own action, he slowly closed the door and turned to Brian.

“I think… I think that’s his name.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Since when do you speak his language?”

“No,no, I don’t. But for some reason, I think he’s trying to tell us his name.”

The dark-haired boy smiled, showing his teeth. He moved his head slightly from side to side, captivating the gaze of both men.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The Obvious

September 6, 1969

Sunlight filtered through the dirty window of Roger's apartment, illuminating the curtains and the dust motes dancing in the air. Brian, drowsy in an armchair, slowly opened his eyes and looked at the stranger, realizing that what had happened the day before wasn't a dream or a bad trip.

"Farrokh," or "Freddie," or whatever his name was, had stayed up most of the night, sitting on the floor. His eyes, slightly red with soft dark circles, were fixed on the wall while his fingers traced the texture of the carpet over and over, with a mix of revulsion and fascination. At the first light of morning, he got up and slowly approached the kitchen faucet, fascinated by the steady rhythm of the dripping water.

The sound of a door caught his attention. Roger came out of his room.
"Did I scare you?"asked the blond, approaching in a comical way but with genuine concern.

The smell of instant coffee began to mix with the lingering scent of tobacco and beer from the night before.
"Bri?"Roger asked, yawning.
"Yeah?"Brian replied, picking up the beer cans.
"What do we do?"
"What do you mean,what do we do? What we talked about yesterday. We have to try and find out..."

Farrokh looked at them. His dark eyes, now free of kohl, seemed less frightened and more curious. He pointed at Brian's mug.
"Coffee,"he said clearly, but in a soft, tremulous voice, as if he was afraid of making a mistake. Then, he pointed at Roger and articulated with effort: "Ro-ger."
"My God,hahaha, yes!" Roger murmured, laughing and looking at Brian. "And me?" Brian asked, pointing at himself.
Farrokh frowned slightly,concentrating. His lips moved silently before a softened version of the name came out: "Bri-an."

Then, to both their surprise, the olive-skinned young man walked over to Brian and wrapped him in a hug, planting a light kiss on his cheek.

It was baffling. His behavior, his appearance, and now this physical effusiveness created a sea of doubts. Who was he? Why did he act like this? Where did he come from?

"We have to do more than just give him coffee or tea," Roger declared, determined. "We need to find out who he is. And for that, we need a picture. Brian, you got your Polaroid around here?"
"Uh...yeah, I think it's in your room, if I remember right."

The photo session was chaos. The Polaroid camera made Farrokh jump back, hiding behind Brian like a child scared of thunder.
"It's harmless!"Roger said, exasperated, showing him the device.
Brian stepped in patiently.He made the universal gesture for taking a picture and then pointed his gaze at Farrokh. After a minute of tense mimed negotiation, Farrokh agreed to pose, stiff as a soldier with his arms crossed over his chest, in the middle of the room.

The flash exploded with a blinding light. Farrokh flinched and looked away at first, but his curiosity overpowered his fear. When Roger shook the photo and the image began to materialize, Farrokh moved closer to look, hypnotized. The snapshot captured a young man with dark hair and huge eyes, dressed in someone else's ill-fitting clothes, as if he didn't belong in that place. But there was something in his posture, an innate dignity even in his confusion.

"Shit, at least he's photogenic," Roger concluded, pinning the photo to the corkboard next to a Jimi Hendrix poster. "We'll make copies. We'll hand them out around Kensington."
"Not a bad idea.Gotta start somewhere."

Too many questions. And, of course, it was time to look for answers.

---

It was mid-afternoon. "Farrokh" stayed in the apartment while Brian and Roger went out to get copies of the photo.

They walked into a camera shop. The place smelled of chemicals and new paper.
"Good morning,"Brian greeted the clerk, a girl sitting there chewing gum boredly.
"Uh...we'd like several copies of this photo," Roger showed her the Polaroid.

The girl looked at it with a critical eye. Both felt the silent judgment, but what did it matter? They needed answers and that stranger needed help.
"Alright.How many copies do you want?" she asked, straight to the point.
"About twenty?"Brian asked, glancing sideways at Roger.
"Uh,yeah, twenty should be fine," the blond nodded.
"That's three pounds and ten shillons.Come back in four hours."

It was the price of their last set of drumsticks. A small fortune. Brian smiled uncomfortably.
"Hey,Roger..." he started, trying to dissuade him. But Roger sighed and took a deep breath.
"Alright.We can pay it." Roger reached into his pocket and dropped some coins on the counter. Brian, after a second's hesitation, did the same, making up the full amount.

It was a significant expense, but they were willing to help Farrokh.

They went out onto the street and walked slowly back to the apartment, killing time. As they climbed the stairs, Roger noticed the door was open and nearly panicked.
"What the hell?!Who the fuck is in there?"
"Hey,Rog," greeted Tim, a friend of theirs and the vocalist for Smile.
"Oh,hey, Tim. You almost gave me a heart attack," Roger replied, relieved.
"Hey,where's Farrokh?" Brian asked with slight concern.
"The dark-haired guy who was here?"
"Yes,"they replied in unison.
"He was in the living room when I came in,sitting on the sofa. I made him some tea. He's a bit strange, haha."
"Yeah,yeah, we know. But where is he now?" Brian looked Tim in the eyes, showing his worry.
"Relax,he went to sleep in the bedroom. By the way, I brought the bass... in case you guys want to practice."

The blond's eyes widened enormously.
"Shit...I'd forgotten. We have to rehearse. It's just that..."
"A stranger who doesn't speak English showed up at Roger's place,"Brian interrupted him.
"That..."Roger let himself fall onto the sofa.
"Yeah,I noticed! How the hell did that happen?" Tim asked, laughing.
"Roger said he just appeared out of nowhere."
"Hahahaha!"Tim laughed, poking a bit of fun. "That's impossible. He's probably a crazy person or someone who's lost."
"Well,we're trying to figure out who he is and all that. He doesn't... he doesn't really seem crazy. He's a bit weird, yeah, but maybe it's because he can't communicate well," Brian started pacing as he explained the situation to the bassist.
"But...have you found out anything?"
"We looked for some ID,but... it seems he doesn't have any. We took a picture of him and went to get copies," Roger cracked his knuckles, looking at the floor.
"Wait,hold on. What do you mean, no ID?"

Brian stared at the wall and swallowed hard. Tim was right, and he hadn't thought about it. How was it possible he had no documents? What if he lost them? What if...?
"No,uh... well, we didn't find any. We don't even know if he has one."
"Maybe he's an illegal immigrant,"Tim said bluntly. "I mean, didn't any of you think of the obvious?"

Brian ran a hand through his curls, frustrated. Tim's logic was crushing, and he felt like an idiot for not reaching that conclusion sooner.
"Damn it,"Roger said, paling slightly.

Farrokh peered out from the doorway then. His brown eyes seemed on the verge of tears, despite not understanding the words. He had been listening intently.
"This is more serious than we thought,"the three nodded silently.
"Guys,you can't just go around showing his photo. People will ask who he is. And if they find out he's an illegal immigrant — if that's what he is, and it's very likely — the police aren't going to give him a hug and tea with biscuits. You'd be handing him over."
"Exactly,"Brian said, speaking slowly as his gaze moved towards Farrokh, who stood motionless in the doorframe.

«Kash Urk Nash bori», the dark-haired young man murmured. Then, he walked over to Tim and, without warning, wrapped his arms around him from behind, resting his head on Tim's shoulder.
"Oh,yeah, uh... friend, I don't understand you," Tim said, freezing up a bit, his body stiff with surprise. "But it's a bit weird that you hug everyone, you know?"

Brian and Roger exchanged a telling look. They were thinking that now they had more questions than before.

Chapter Text

A week had passed since the brilliant idea of making copies of the Polaroid, since Tim met Farrokh—now christened "Freddie" or, to make it shorter, "Fred," because it was easier to pronounce—and since they realized Freddie was an immigrant without papers.

They spent that afternoon picking up the copies, only to store them away. They complained about the wasted money and spent a sleepless night.

Fred stayed at home, locked up like a princess in a tower. Letting him out was too risky.

"Hello," "Goodbye," "Good night" when night fell, "thank you" when they gave him something. The dark-haired man was learning quickly, he was making an effort. But he still couldn't hold a conversation.

Freddie, who had been sleeping on the sofa, began to murmur something. He got up and put the bread in the toaster; he had been watching Roger do it and had no choice but to imitate him if he didn't want to starve. It wasn't that Roger didn't offer him food, but he couldn't depend on him for everything.

"Hello, Freddie."
"Hel...lo...Rog..." His voice was slow, hesitant, but his pronunciation was improving.
"Okay,listen, I'm going out," he said, pointing at himself and then looking at the door. "Stay here, okay?" the blonde finished telling him, putting his hand on his own chest.

Freddie nods—Uh-hum.

He is alone. He walks to the bathroom and searches in the dirty laundry for where Roger had left his clothes, covered in blood and unwashed. He arrived here in them. But he doesn't know why, what happened, what this place is, or why he can hardly understand anything.

A repetitive sound pulls him from his mental bubble. He walks and knows it's that device Roger uses to communicate. He picks it up, brings it to his ear.

"Roger. Where are you? We have rehearsal," he recognized Brian's voice instantly.

"Shemenj da Brian-ra (I hear you Brian)," he spoke, trying to find the logic in how that strange magic box worked.

"Oh, Freddie, Roger isn't there?" the curly-haired one said slowly, making sure he could be understood. But he got no response. "I'll come over."

Freddie hung up the device, moving away from it. It must have some kind of magic he wasn't familiar with. And he didn't know why he was thinking about magic either.

He returned to the bathroom. He picked up his clothes, his only possession, the only thing that was his in this house. The blue fabric was turning brown and didn't have a pleasant smell. He heard the door, but he didn't flinch and didn't move. He knew it was Brian.

"Freddie!" he called out loudly. "I gather Roger's gone," the taller one began walking towards the kitchen, then to Roger's room, and ended up knocking on the bathroom door. "Freddie, are you in there?"

Brian could hear the water from the sink. Should he go in or give him privacy? He decided on the former.

He found Farrokh washing his clothes, scrubbing them with soap in the sink. His heart raced.

"Nu zalak laged men (the blood won't come out)," said Freddie, looking at the stubborn stain.

Freddie, who was watching his reflection in the mirror, observes Brian. He turns around and hands him the clothes.

"Nu zalak laged men," he repeats, sounding even more frustrated, but this time addressing Brian. Trying, perhaps, to seek advice or a solution.

"The blonde is a complete bloody idiot, how could he leave this unwashed?" Brian wrings out the clothes, angry.

Laughter is heard, a girl's voice. Brian rolls his eyes; another one of Roger's dates. The last one didn't end well: that Caroline girl ran out of the flat screaming and insulting for no apparent reason, and Roger said he had no idea what happened.

He hangs the clothes on the shower curtain to quickly leave. Brian in front, Farrokh behind him.

Roger on the sofa, and the pixie-haired girl are laughing, telling rubbish jokes.

"Oh my god, Roggie! You didn't tell me you had a friend," the woman spoke, addressing Farrokh directly.

"Flatmates... This is Jo," said Roger. "My new girlfriend," he smiled smugly, proud.

"Hi, Bri," the girl greeted.

Brian shook her hand. He tried to smile. To be polite.

"Yesterday, 'cupcake'..." Brian pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh. Roger meets a girl, with whom he'll only have sex, and she calls him "cupcake". Roger, embarrassed, looked at Brian.

"Well... He talked a lot about you. You're in a band, right?" Jo continued. "But he didn't tell me he had another friend."

"Well... it's just that—" Roger tried to explain.

"He's new, arrived recently... from... Zanzibar!" Brian explained quickly, breaking into a cold sweat. Roger raised an eyebrow.

"Zanzibar?" Roger's date looked at him, confused.

"Yeah, Zanzibar. That's in Africa," the blonde explained.

"I see, hahaha."

"He's got no place now, he's staying here while, well, he sorts one out."

"Aww, poor little thing. I hope he can sort it out," the girl takes Freddie's cheek, but he quickly pulls away.

"Roger, your friend is a bit shy, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he's a bit introverted."

"He doesn't speak English," Brian interjected.

"What language does he speak?"

Freddie approaches Jo and sits beside her, taking her hands. He's drawn to the shine of her rings.

Brian observes: Farrokh likes jewels and shiny things, and sometimes he doesn't seem to recognize personal boundaries.

"Well... um... eh... We don't know."

Brian looks at the floor and trembles.

"Oh, but... you should find out, don't you think? He doesn't know English and you have no idea what he's saying.

"Roger... Jo's right."

"What's his name?" the girl asks, while leaning on the dark-haired man's shoulder. He looks at her, but doesn't push her away.

"Farrokh," say Brian and Roger in unison.

"Farrokh-zad," the dark-skinned one corrects.

"My god, a neighbour of mine, Indian, has the same name."

They spent a while talking without trying to reveal more than necessary. They ordered pizzas, sodas, and beers. Roger and Jo smoked and started having semi-public sex on the sofa. Meanwhile, Farrokh watched.

The blonde, who was drunk enough, asked Freddie if he wanted to join. Everything happened under Fred's stunned and confused gaze. He didn't really understand what was happening, or what the blonde was saying to him.

Brian appears with a beer in his hand, from the kitchen.

"Roger, what the hell are you saying?" he demands, scolding.

"Don't be a spoilsport, Brian..." Jo stops short. "Rogie, why does your friend have your clothes?" she asks, and turns her head to look at Freddie and then at her date.

"Ehh... Well, he... Um..."

"Oy... You slept with him, that's why he has your clothes." The blonde, the curly-haired one, and even the dark-haired one, who didn't understand a word, opened their eyes wide. Although the woman didn't seem angry, she quickly stood up.

"Um... I can explain... Shit," Roger tries to get the girl to come back.

"Bye, Roggie. Bye, Bri. Bye, Farrokh," she finishes putting on her shoes and winks before leaving.

The blonde falls onto the sofa, frustrated, complaining. The dark-haired one kisses his cheek.

Roger pulls away and pushes him.

"Shit, no, mate! No, no kisses... Why did you do that?" the blonde asks, annoyed. "Are you a poof?"

"Roger, for God's sake... That word is offensive."

"It's just that—"

"Mine kenej de? (What does that mean?)" Freddie has tears in his eyes. He doesn't know what Roger said; however, from his tone and annoyance, it doesn't seem like something good.

Chapter Text

The sun was rising, and a cold, subtle light filtered through the windows. It wasn't the warm light Freddie associated with the beautiful gardens he'd been dreaming of, but a pale light that seemed to accentuate the weight of a silence he found grating.

Brian was stirring the sugar in his mug of tea, over and over, in the kitchen. The sound of the spoon against the porcelain was the only noise in the room, tense and repetitive. Roger, slumped on the sofa in the same clothes from the night before (or rather, the lack thereof), was staring fixedly at the carpet, the t-shirts, and the dust on the floor.

The air smelled of cigarette smoke, perfume, and, of course, of an argument waiting to happen.

"I can't believe you said that to him," Brian's voice cut through the silence, low but loaded with disappointment.

Roger didn't look up. He shrugged, a defensive gesture.
"I was drunk and frustrated.Jo left because of him."
"No."Brian stopped stirring with a sharp clink. "Jo left because you asked him to join a trio with a traumatized bloke who doesn't understand half of what's going on. She saw it with your clothes and assumed things. Her problem, not Freddie's, not yours, not mine... Freddie was just... being Freddie."

The word "poof" hung in the air between them, poisonous. Roger finally looked at Brian, his blue eyes bloodshot.
"I know,alright? It was... stupid. But, for fuck's sake, Brian, how do I explain... he's just so... intense. The hugs, the kisses, the way he looks at you... It's... it's..."

"He's different, yes. He acts a certain way, maybe he's 'feminine', maybe he does like men, so what?" Brian corrected, dryly. "But that's no reason to use that word. It's offensive, Roger."

Roger, exhausted, rubbed his face with his hands. A long minute passed before Brian spoke again, his voice shifting from reprimand to disbelief.

"And another thing. Why the hell was his clothes still lying in the bathroom, covered in blood? Didn't it even occur to you to wash them in a week?"

The blonde straightened up on the sofa, his expression changing from guilt to sudden seriousness.
"Wash them?"he asked, as if Brian had suggested committing a robbery. "I can't wash them."

"And why not?" Brian asked, exasperated. "Roger, it's... disgusting. And besides, it's all he's got. Didn't it cross your mind that cleaning his only possession was the least we could do?"

"Because... because it's evidence, Brian!" Roger stared at him, now lucid. "Think. He shows up out of nowhere, with his clothes torn and stained with... He doesn't speak our language. We have no idea who he is. That blood on that strange tunic... it's the only real clue we have about what happened to him. Where he came from. Throwing it out or washing it would be like... like erasing the only..."

"Proof," Brian finished, swallowing hard.

Brian went still. He hadn't thought of that. His scientific mind had seen an object that needed cleaning, but Roger had thought pragmatically: it was evidence.

"Put it away," Brian conceded finally, with a sigh. "Somewhere out of sight. I don't want to see it."

As the tension from their words settled in the living room, neither of them noticed the faint creak of the floorboards in the hallway. Behind the bedroom door, Freddie, awake with his ear pressed to the wood, held his breath, his lips and jaw clenched. He didn't understand the words, but Brian's tone, firm and disappointed, and Roger's voice, laden with frustration and defensiveness, had told him everything he needed to know.

He slumped against the door, sliding slowly down to the floor. A cold tear traced a path down his cheek, followed by another, and another, and another... He felt like an object, a problem, a puzzle with a missing piece, an enigma. Like an exile, cast out from some lost place. He cried for everything he had lost without knowing and for everything he didn't understand about this cold, strange world, until exhaustion, once again, overpowered the pain and he fell asleep against the door, seeking a comfort that words could not offer him.

---

12:00 PM. Lunchtime.

The dark-haired man woke, opening his eyes slowly. He got up from the floor.

His body aching, he walked slowly to the kitchen: he was hungry.

"Fred..."
"Freddie...you've been crying," Roger approached, remorseful, looking at his friend's red-rimmed eyes.

Then, those beautiful, deep dark eyes looked at him, and Roger grew nervous.

"Oh, bloody hell. I... I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have said that... It's just I was frustrated, you know?"

Roger looked down, his blue eyes fixed on Freddie's feet, too ashamed to look him in the face.

"I forgive you." His tone was slow and solemn, but honest.

Freddie smiled, showing his teeth. Roger smiled back and, without thinking, pulled him into a hug. The dark-haired man found himself locked under the blonde's shoulders.

Roger, who had earlier argued with Brian and felt deeply remorseful, inhaled the scent of Freddie's raven-black hair. A soft aroma of jasmine enveloped him.

He carefully pushed him away with his hands. What was he doing? What? Was he... attracted to Freddie too?

Freddie, still smiling but with eyes that remained sad, asked:

"Is there food?" This snapped Roger out of his daze.

"Wow, mate, yes, yes there's food. You're learning fast." He gave the dark-haired man a few pats on the shoulder.

Roger pulled some reheated food from the fridge. Freddie watched. Yes, this was normal: leftover food, bread with jam, ordering takeaway.

He came to the conclusion that his friend lived in poverty. His heart softened.

Aga zu-ra, mash-ak-zu shub-ani.
(Thank you for sharing the little you have.)

---

Roger, Brian, Tim, and, of course, Freddie were in Trident Studios.

Freddie being there was Roger's idea. And everyone seemed to agree.

Freddie attracted glances from the staff and others present, who luckily didn't ask questions.

"He's a new friend," Brian said. No further questions were asked.

"Freddie, if you want, have a seat over there," said Tim, pointing to a chair.

Freddie sat down, crossing his legs. He felt a thrill, and his heart began to beat strongly. He knew Roger and Brian were into music but had never heard them play. How did they sound? What kind of instruments did they play?... Everything felt strange, as strange as when he first arrived: the device Roger used to talk to people, the magic box that heated food, but he was getting used to it. And he hoped he would this time, too.

Brian, holding his guitar, said loudly, "Right then, lads. How about we play 'April Lady'?"

Fred observed Brian's instrument; he'd never seen anything like it, it was red and had a strange shape. Tim's was a bit weird too. Roger's was some kind of strange set of drums.

"Sounds good!" Roger replied, hitting a cymbal.

"She won our hearts, the arts she loved
Was painting pictures for free
When she was done she hung them up
For all the children to see"

Tim's voice sounded, followed by Brian's.

"Goodbye april lady
It's been good to have you around
Goodbye april lady
You've done a lot for the folks in this town"

They were all singing, Roger focused on his drums and Brian moving his fingers over his guitar. Farrokh appreciated every note in a magical and precious way.

"The children learned to read
She strung their beads
It's sorry she was the one
As you can see isn't she good
She don't leave nothing undone"

The dark-haired man stood up, smiling, and approached, hypnotized. And the three of them couldn't stop looking into his eyes.

"Goodbye april lady
It's been good to have you around
Goodbye april lady
You've done a lot for the folks in this town"

Freddie's face seemed to light up. Small glimmers of brilliance ran down his cheeks, his lips curved upward. He made everyone in the room smile.

He approached gracefully and confidently. His eyes, dark and magical, were fixed on the microphone.

Everyone stepped back. They watched expectantly, mouths slightly agape, staring intently at the dark-haired man. He seemed like a different person, not the shy, sensitive young man who seemed to need help.

A feeling of peace took hold of the room.

Freddie began to sing as if the song were his own, as if he had been singing it all his life.

"She won our hearts, the arts she loved
Was painting pictures for free
When she was done she hung them up
For all the children to see..."

A long silence followed, and smiles appeared. The sun seemed to brighten the windows even more, and the sound of several songbirds could be heard.

"Oh," Brian, who was standing, tried to speak. But he only stammered. Freddie's voice was beautiful.

"Bloody hell, hahaha. Tim, you've got competition," joked Roger, who was flushed and nervous.

"Prat," Tim retorted to Roger and sat down next to Freddie.

"Fred... I think you should be the singer. …Are you a singer?" Freddie, with a smile, looked at Tim and nodded.

"Do you get it, Fred?" asked Brian.
"Ehhh...Well... No."
"Ok,"the blonde addressed Freddie.
"You,"he pointed at him, "sing," he finished, miming singing. This elicited a few small laughs.
"Yes,"the brown-skinned man replied, finally understanding the question.

What followed was a heavy silence. What is happening? he wondered. His eyes lost focus.

He collapsed to the floor.

He sees himself in a huge mirror: wearing his brilliant blue tunic embroidered with gold. His bright eyes painted with blue and black. Two white and golden wings on his back.
On his head adorned a crown with peacock feathers and a crescent moon.He couldn't catch his breath. It was him. He was there. And those were his clothes.

Two winged lions approach to sleep at his feet. And Farrokh-zad remembers his name again.

But now... What had happened? How did he end up in the other world? The human world.