Breglio and the Song in the Glass

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It was a night without direction. The paths in the grass blurred, as if they had forgotten where they led. Breglio groped his way forward, the light of his lantern a dim glow that whispered more than shone. He had followed a call, not loud, not clear—more like an echo in the silence, like a sound more sensed than heard. Something was searching for him. Or wanted to be found. The path led him to the shore of the Träufersee, where the water barely breathed. There, among the reeds and shadows, stood a house that had never been built, but collected. Twigs, bird bones, shards of glass in which past light had lost its way—everything seemed pieced together from memories. A bell hung on the door, but when Breglio brushed against it, it made no sound. Only a vibration ran through his arm. Inside, it was cool. Not cold, but like the air in a suspended story. Shelves lined the ceiling with jars. Some sparkled like dewdrops, others were blind. Some shimmered from within, as if breathing softly. Breglio stepped closer. In one jar, he saw a twisting spiral of smoke. In another: dancing points of light, frozen in a moment that had never passed. "Are you looking for something in particular?" The voice was little more than a rustle. A woman stepped out from between the shelves. Old, but not frail. Her skin was like aged paper, and her hair fell over her shoulders like gray dust. She wore a cloak of music notation—not written, but woven. "I'm looking for a song," Breglio said. The woman blinked. "Songs don't live in jars." "But some don't die. They just become quiet. And if you don't hear them, they disappear." She looked at him. For a long time. Then she nodded. "Follow me." She led him through narrow aisles of sound and glass, past bottles that hummed or trembled softly. Finally, she stopped. Before them stood a simple glass, barely larger than a hazelnut. No label. No glow. "This one," she whispered. "It was never sung. Only thought. A song born of longing. So tender it feared itself." Breglio took it in his hand. And listened. Not with his ears—with what lay beneath. It was a single note, warm and wide, like a distant embrace that had never happened. And within it: a promise never spoken. A look never returned, a farewell never allowed. "Whose song is this?" he asked quietly. "Perhaps yours," the woman answered. "Or someone's you've forgotten. Sometimes we sing without realizing it." He held the glass for a long time. Then he gently put it back. "I didn't mean to keep it," he said. "You couldn't have done that either," she replied. "Real songs can't be captured. Only remembered." As he left, the glass hummed differently. Not louder—but with a hint of hope.