Mortimer S. Spindlewhisk The Melody in the Mausoleum.

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It was a night that sounded like a badly tuned violin. The rain wrote illegible letters on the windowpane, while Mortimer S. Spindlewhisk, wrapped in his trench coat, compared a piece of blue cheese to a poem about loneliness. A difficult work, both. Then the knocking—not a fist bump, but a delicate beat, like the beginning of a forgotten waltz. Outside the window stood a penguin in tuxedo. The rain shimmered on his feathers like freshly polished onyx. "Maestro Rubinacci," he imagined. "Something unheard of is happening. In the mausoleum of lost musicians—someone is playing. Every night. And there is nothing but dust, stone, and the past." Mortimer loved music. Especially when it didn't come from beyond the grave. Nevertheless, he accompanied Rubinacci, through misty alleys, past lanterns that hung in the haze like tired notes, until they reached the gate of the old cemetery. The mausoleum sat there like a sleeping thought in stone. They waited. The clock struck midnight. Then it sounded: a melody, gossamer and perfect. A waltz, played on an instrument that no longer existed. Rubinacci froze. "That's his piece. My old rival. Silvius Drossel. Buried for forty years." "Perhaps he forgot to say something," Mortimer murmured, pulling up his collar, as if words like those could turn the wind. Inside, it smelled of dried lilac, old wood, and unshed tears. No light, only sound. On a shattered pedestal sat a shadow. Not a ghost—but a mechanical image. A musical machine built of gears, ivory, ink, and memory. The fingers, metallic yet artful, glided over strings of light. Something was carved into the back: "I play until I'm forgotten." Rubinacci whispered, "His last composition. He couldn't let go of the applause. So he built himself an echo." Mortimer stepped closer, examining the engraving. The gears clicked like ticking grief. "Some melodies end not because no one is listening, but because no one wants to listen." He looked at Rubinacci. "Tell him." Rubinacci stepped forward. Not a word. Just a bow. Long. Deep. With tears that didn't ring out, but echoed. The machine faltered. One last note, like a breath. Then: silence. Not a mechanical one, but one that came from the depths. The silence of consent. Outside, the rain had stopped. The fog lifted, as if it, too, had heard the last piece. Rubinacci handed Mortimer a photograph. Two young musicians with folded arms, smiling in front of an old conservatory. "We never saw each other again," the penguin said quietly. "But we never stopped playing." Mortimer looked at the picture, then placed it in his breast pocket—right over the heart of the pipe, which never glowed, but was always warm. "Some echoes are not ghosts," he murmured, "they are memories that know they may end." And as they left the mausoleum, a final melody wafted through the trees—like a farewell from past bars.