Breglio and the Echo of the Message in a Bottle

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It began with an empty bottle that wasn't empty. Breglio found it at the edge of Whispering Brook, where the water flowed so slowly that it felt more like contemplation. The bottle was half-buried in the mud, its glass shimmering greenish, the cork tightly sealed. No label, no sign. Just a faint tinkling, barely audible—like a song coming from far away. The imp crouched beside it, its fur ruffled by the morning dew. In his left hand, as almost always, he held his small lantern. In his right—carefully—now the bottle. It was cool, but from within it emanated a faint vibration. There was no message to be seen, no paper, no trace of ink. And yet: Something spoke. Breglio listened. First for a long time, then longer. "An echo," he murmured. "But not my own." He carried the bottle to his hiding place, a hollowed-out tree stump near the forgotten path. There, among beetle cards, wish fragments, and a half-eaten mooncake, he placed the bottle in a notch of moss. Then he sat in front of it, crossed his legs, held the lantern close to the glass, and waited. After three hours, the light flickered. The bottle vibrated more strongly. And then: a breath. Not a sound, not a word, but a noise like a sigh someone had cast into the wind—many years ago, perhaps tomorrow. "I hear you," Breglio said softly. "Who are you?" The answer came not as language, but as a memory: A shore. A child. Another bottle, thrown out of necessity. Not paper. Just a wish, silent, formless, breathed into the glass: Find me. But no one had answered. Not then. Not until now. Breglio frowned. "A message in a bottle with no recipient. Or... with a recipient too late." He crawled to the shelf and pulled out an old whisper cloth—a fabric that stores messages when held against the skin. He placed it on the bottle. And suddenly: sound. Words, as if from far away, interwoven with crying and the sound of waves. "I was there," it breathed. "Waited so long. So tired of hoping." Breglio pressed his forehead against the glass. Something trembled inside him. It wasn't pity, not grief. It was the recognition of a loneliness that had no voice. Only echo. "Perhaps finding you is no longer possible," whispered the imp. "But your being heard... that is it." He pulled out a silver vial, opened it, and let three drops of lantern light fall into it—light he had once reclaimed from stolen fireflies. Then he whispered, "I send you onward. Not back. Not forward. To where someone is listening." He lowered the bottle carefully into the stream. The water absorbed it, quietly, like a thought that cannot be held. And when it disappeared, the echo didn't stop—it changed. It became clearer. Purer. Breglio sat for a long time. The light in his lantern shone a little warmer. Not brighter. But warmer. And somewhere, very far away, someone raised their head – without knowing why. Only with the feeling of no longer being completely alone.