Echoes of the past
The dusty road, covered with cracked asphalt, led to an abandoned house on the outskirts of the village. Alexei hadn’t been here in twenty years, not since his grandmother died and his parents sold the property. But something was calling him back, like an invisible voice from the depths of memory.
The village had changed: the houses were dilapidated, the shops had closed, and the streets were quieter than he remembered. Only the old elm tree at the bend, like a sentry, still stood still. Alexei walked slowly past, palm touching the rough bark as if he hoped the tree would recognise him.
His grandmother’s house was covered in ivy, with faded paint and creaky steps. He froze in front of the door. Here, in this house, it had once smelled of cherry pies, cinnamon, and smoke from the stove. Here he hid under a blanket when lightning cut the sky in a thunderstorm. This was where he’d first heard an old box with a tune that sounded like a lullaby for ghosts.
He opened the door cautiously. It smelled damp and of time. Light filtered through the cracks in the shutters, painting streaks on the dusty floor. Inside everything was like a frozen dream: an old rocking chair, a bookshelf with worn volumes, a cracked mirror in the corridor.
Alexei made his way to the attic. There, under the pitched roof, were things that no one had taken away: a trunk with his grandmother’s letters, faded photographs, dolls with lost eyes. And that very box.
He opened it. The mechanism was barely breathing, but, wound up, it quietly sang a familiar tune. Simple, almost childlike, but there was something subtly sad about it. Alexei closed his eyes. Faces flashed before him – his grandmother, his little self, laughing in the garden, his mother, still young, with freckles and a light gait. His throat constricted.
Suddenly a knock came from the corner. He turned round sharply. There stood an old cupboard. Alexei walked over. The cupboard opened slightly, as if calling. Behind it, unexpectedly, was a door – it had not been there before. His heart thumped more often. He pushed the door open, and it creaked open.
There was a small room. On the floor was a circle of candles. In the centre was an old handmade doll with buttons for eyes. On the wall, someone had written in charcoal the words, ‘Those who are forgotten come back.’
Alexei recoiled. He didn’t remember that. Or… didn’t want to remember? As a child, he had often spoken to his ‘invisible friend’ and his grandmother had said that ‘the house is alive, it keeps everything.’ They were games, he thought.
He went back downstairs. Put the box on the table and wondered. What if memory wasn’t just a thought, but a door? What if he had forgotten something – important, frightening? Why did he hear the same tune in his dreams every night, even though he hadn’t heard it in a long time?
He closed the house, but he couldn’t shut out the feeling that someone was watching him. Already in the car, he glanced in the rearview mirror. A shadow flickered in the attic window. Or was he imagining it?
As he drove away, the wind played softly in the leaves of the elms. And in the house the box sounded again. Without the factory. By itself.