The Merchant of Frozen Voices

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The alleys of the sunken city were empty, only the dripping of water echoed from the walls. Between rotten balconies and broken windows, a path led down into a hall whose entrance was lined with smoke flares. Those who crossed it entered a market meant not for the eye, but for the ear. Rows of endless shelves filled the space. On them stood glass bottles, large and small, bulbous or narrow, each sealed with a cork. Some glowed from within as if they bore a sun, others shimmered pale blue like ice. But the most striking thing was the sound: from each bottle emerged a faint yet unmistakable sound. A whisper, a sigh, a laugh, sometimes a scream. All these voices were trapped, frozen like water in crystal. The merchant stood in the middle of this sea of glass. His head was bald, his shoulders heavy with a gold chain. With clasped hands, he waited, motionless as a statue. His gaze seemed to see through the bottles, as if he could not only hear each individual voice, but also weigh and measure it. A customer approached. Not human, not animal, but a being that seemed to have fallen from ancient legends: tall, with gray skin, muscular limbs, and horns that grew from its forehead like curved moons. His eyes sparkled in the twilight, yet they held a shadow of forlornness. Cautiously, he reached for a bottle in which a bright child's laughter trembled. "Do you want to buy it?" the merchant asked softly. His voice was smooth, like cold metal. "Or just listen?" The horned creature was silent. It held the glass as if afraid the warmth within might escape. Finally, it raised its eyes. "That voice is not mine," it said harshly. "And yet I recognize it. It sounds like what I lost." The merchant smiled thinly. "Then it is valuable. And value has its price. Some voices cost only a few coins. Others demand sacrifices. Every voice is a treasure, and whoever loses it rarely gets it back." "Perhaps," replied the stranger. "But voices are not possessions. They are memories. Without them, only shells remain." A silence fell over the market. Then the merchant nodded. "You speak like one who believes order is less valuable than truth. Be warned: whoever pulls the corks will not only release joy. Pain, anger, and fear also await in these bottles." The horned man closed his eyes, and for a heartbeat, his form trembled. Then he slammed both hands on the table, the glass shaking. "Then both shall be free! For what is a life without the burden it carries?" A gust of wind swept through the hall, even though no door was open. The flames of the torches licked wildly, and the bottles began to clink. Corks popped as if by an invisible hand, voices burst forth—a chorus of laughter, sobs, unfinished songs. They swirled around the shelves, rising higher until they disappeared into the vault.