The Voices of the Bluebell

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The bluebell at the heart of Caldrith's Hollow only blooms when no one is watching. From a distance, it appears like a tree of light and sound: its curved branches of polished gold bear calyxes of glassy shimmer, from which quiet spirals rise—notes so delicate they are more memories than sounds. But those who come too close, without inner silence, hear nothing. Only an empty ringing that forgets itself. The Caldrithians know this. That's why they don't approach it directly, but walk along the spiral footpaths of silver gravel that wind through the surrounding dream garden. From there, they listen—not with their ears, but with what is silent within them. For the bluebell doesn't sing the same way for everyone. For some, the voices of the lost resound. An old child's laughter. A word that was never spoken. A farewell that never happened. Others hear a melody from their future—a beat they have yet to walk. Still others hear the heart of a story they were never allowed to tell. One morning, however, in a year no one could count, the bluebell began to sound different. Its notes flickered, became brittle, and instead of spirals, flat shadows rose from the cups. The Caldrithians were perplexed. The clock collector was questioned, but he silently shook his head. "She has heard too many voices," murmured the old clockmaker. "Perhaps she has forgotten which is her own." Then a decision was made. A messenger should be chosen—someone with a wakeful heart and a steady mind. Someone who could dare to speak to the bluebell rather than just listen. The choice fell on Mirela, a young chronodancer. In her breast, she carried a glass metronome that beat to the rhythm of her moods. She knew the quiet paths, knew when to be silent and when to whisper. At dusk, as the mist hung like tears between the branches, she approached the bluebell. No footsteps, only breath. No intention, only presence. When she stood at the edge of the circle of roots, she placed her hand on the ground and whispered, "I did not come to ask you. Only to be with you." Then the bluebell's stem trembled slightly—like an awakening. From the golden calyxes streamed not sound, but a light that settled in waves on Mirela's skin. Something stirred inside her: words she had never thought forced their way into her throat. And then, very gently, she began to hum. Not a familiar melody, but a quiet thread of feeling and memory. The bluebell answered. First with a single note—deep and clear, like the first light after a long darkness. Then with a harmony of voices that came not from the world, but from the time between days. In these voices lay colors. Smells. Movements. Smiles. Tears. Entire lives. The garden was silent. When Mirela returned, her voice was changed—not louder, but more truthful. And that night, the bluebell blossoms also began to glow again. Their tones were softer than before. Sometimes they carried fragments of Mirela's song within them.