She was on holiday in a beautiful, magical little town on the ocean’s shore. Since she arrived, she had a strange feeling that she knew this place intimately, as if she had been there before. The ancient cobbled streets, their stones smoothed by the countless lives that had passed over them through centuries, seemed to remember every step. The worn ornaments and gargoyles on the facades of the buildings whispered stories of times long gone — stories of pain and loss, but also of joy and celebration.

She stayed up late at night, wandering through the labyrinth of the old town, letting the dim light of the oil streetlamps guide her steps, bringing back memories she never knew she had. Somehow, every night she discovered new routes. At times it even seemed as if the town was quietly expanding, inventing new streets and corners just to satisfy her curiosity.

Tonight, as she walked along one of the narrow streets, a flicker of the lamps caught her eye, as if inviting her to turn left into a passage she had not noticed before. She followed the call, only to find another turn marked by the same playful flickering. She turned again.

The little street was empty. She walked slowly, admiring the silence and the beauty of the old buildings rising on both sides. The moon was full, shining high above her head, competing gently with the dim glow of the lanterns.

As she walked, she heard a very faint sound. It took her a moment to realise it was music coming from somewhere in the distance ahead. She followed it, the melody growing clearer and stronger the closer she came.

At last she reached its source. The sound was drifting from a narrow alleyway on her left. As if enchanted by the music and the soft glow of light beyond it, she stepped inside and followed the passage, emerging on the other side into a small marketplace.

The moment she stepped out of the alley, the music stopped. Once again, she was surrounded by complete silence.

She looked around. Stalls stood on all sides of the square, arranged in a neat circle, as if waiting for visitors. Strangely, she could see no sellers. The stalls were filled with goods, carefully displayed, yet there was no one there to tend them. They seemed abandoned, and yet not neglected — as if their owners had stepped away only a moment ago.

She walked slowly around the square, looking at the items displayed on the stalls: neatly arranged notebooks, various musical instruments — violins, guitars, trumpets, drums — and smaller ones such as triangles, harmonicas, flutes, even a conductor’s baton. Then she noticed rows of tiny and larger phials, each of a different shape and colour, their glass catching the pale light of the moon.

She felt a strong pull to pick up some of the objects, yet she hesitated, uneasy about touching anything while the sellers were nowhere to be seen. She walked around the square once more, hoping someone would appear, but nothing moved. Everything remained still and quiet, as if waiting for her to make the next step.

At last, she reached for one of the notebooks. It was bound in soft brown leather, the cover smooth and warm under her fingers. She opened it slowly.

Before she had time to look properly at the pages, she heard the delicate beginning of a piano piece. Startled, she lowered her eyes to the notebook and saw an intricate web of musical symbols, handwritten across the paper. The notes seemed almost alive, dancing lightly on the page before her.

She stood motionless, listening in amazement.

After a moment, she closed the book. The music stopped.

She opened it again on a different page.
The melody returned, continuing as if it had never been interrupted.

She put the notebook down and picked up a violin. The moment her fingers touched the strings, a beautiful, slightly longing sound filled the air. She breathed it in, the notes clear and vivid, as if she were standing in the middle of a live concert. The melody was so sweet and captivating that she struggled to put the instrument down. She listened for a long while before finally placing it back on the stall.

The next item she reached for was a conductor’s baton. She picked it up very gently, but the moment she held it, the baton seemed to come alive. Her hand was lifted slightly, as if guided by an invisible force, as though she were standing before an orchestra waiting for her signal.

The music began with a strong chord. One instrument joined another, until the air filled with the rich sound of a full orchestra playing in perfect harmony. She held the baton almost frozen, afraid that the smallest movement might break the balance of the music. She did not understand what was happening. How could a single baton produce something so vast, so elaborate, so real?

Curious to see what would happen next, she turned her attention to the rows of phials. They were of different sizes and colours, each filled with a shimmering liquid that caught the moonlight like tiny pieces of glass. She reached for a green one. Nothing happened at first.

She held it closer, studying it carefully, thinking it might be some kind of perfume or essential oil. Slowly, she pulled out the small stopper.

At once, birdsong filled the air.

For a moment she felt as if she had been carried far away, into an early morning in a green orchard. Fresh, lively chirping surrounded her from all sides, so real that she almost expected to see branches moving above her head. The singing continued, bright and full of life.

She closed the phial and reached for a purple one instead. A soft female voice filled the air. She opened another, and then another, each time hearing a different voice. Some were female, some male, singing in languages she did not understand, some only humming gentle melodies. Each carried a different story, touching different strings of her heart. Some songs were joyful, some full of hope, some heavy with grief.

Eventually, a small orange phial caught her eye.

She opened it carefully.

A mature female voice began to sing.

The melody felt strangely familiar. She frowned slightly, listening more closely. In the second verse, a young girl’s voice joined the first, the two singing together in perfect unison.

“That’s impossible…” she whispered, her hand trembling.

She knew this song.
She knew both voices.

The older one belonged to her grandmother.
The child’s voice was her own.

Memories rushed toward her all at once, so vivid that the square around her seemed to disappear. She saw the small kitchen, the afternoon light, her grandmother smiling as they sang together.

Tears filled her eyes before she even realised she was crying.

Tears of joy, and of longing for that safe, peaceful moment that had lived somewhere inside her all along. She held the phial tightly in her hand, afraid to move, afraid the sound might fade if she did.

She did not want the moment to end.

She sat down on the cold stone floor, holding the phial close to her heart, listening to the song again and again. Sometimes she sang along, her adult voice joining the two voices from the past, blending with them as if no time had passed at all.

She no longer felt the need to reach for other phials or instruments. They had all produced beautiful sounds, but this tiny orange bottle carried something different, something meant only for her.

A quiet understanding began to unfold within her. She suddenly knew why the town had felt so familiar, why every night walk had led her deeper into its winding streets, why the flickering lamps had guided her here. She had found something she had not been looking for, yet something that had been waiting for her all along.

The forgotten song had wanted to be heard again.
It had wanted to bring back the warmth, the safety, the love that had never truly disappeared, only fallen silent.

She listened until the darkness of the night began to soften, dissolving slowly under the first pale hint of the coming dawn. The sun was not yet visible, but the air had changed. The silence was no longer the silence of night, but of morning about to begin.

She held the phial tighter, pressing it against her chest, as if she could keep the song with her forever. But the glass began to feel strangely light in her hands.

She lifted her head.

The market was fading.
The stalls, the square, the narrow alleyways — all of it was becoming translucent, dissolving together with the night itself.

Her breath caught in her throat. She looked down at the phial.
It too was losing its shape, its colour draining away until it became only a faint shadow in her palms.

“Oh no…” she whispered, closing her fingers around it, trying to hold on.

But the glass slipped through her grasp like mist.

A moment later, there was nothing in her hands.

She looked around.
She was standing in a narrow street, the lanterns no longer flickering, the town slowly waking under the first rays of the rising sun.

She lifted her gaze, and her eyes met the stone face of a gargoyle watching from the corner of the old building. She recognised it at once. She was in the very same spot where she had first heard the distant music.

She looked down at her empty hands, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The phial was gone. The song was gone. She could no longer hear her grandmother’s voice.

For a moment, she felt strangely hollow.

And yet, beneath the emptiness, there was something else.
A quiet fullness, warm and steady, as if something lost had found its way back to her. The memory was still there. The song was still there. It no longer needed the phial. It belonged to her now.

She took a slow breath, then turned and began to walk back through the winding streets toward the place where she was staying.

As she walked, she caught herself humming softly.

It was the same song.

The rising sun glowed in the same warm colour as the orange phial.