There was a village where sound was money in a secret valley that no map could find. Words carried weight. Savings were whispered. Shouts were considered a luxury. You lost more time the more you talked. Silence was preferred to speed by the wise and cautious villagers. They lived long, peaceful lives, aging slowly. However, Mira’s voice cracked the skies; she was born in a thunderstorm. Her yawns rustled mountains, and her giggles withered flowers. Joy bubbled like a spring in her lungs, despite her parents’ entreaties to keep quiet. Mira stumbled into a cave she had never seen before one evening while chasing fireflies. It beat with a heartbeat that wasn’t her own. She sang a single note out of curiosity. The cave answered. A perfect harmonic, living echo. She came back day after day, giving it stories, laughter, and songs. The village changed in return. It was out of season for trees to bloom. Within hours, babies were able to walk. Overnight, the sick recovered. Through the cave, Mira’s voice was supplying the valley with borrowed time, which was more powerful than medicine. Then others arrived. They screamed into the cave, hungry for growth and youth. They sang songs they didn’t mean. told tales that weren’t their own. After taking it all in, the cave became quiet. Time fell apart. In a matter of seconds, the village aged by centuries. The crops wilted. The air became dense. The valley recalled what had been taken. “I’m sorry,” Mira said in a whisper as she made her way back to the cave. There was no echo.
July, 2025
