From the short story series 'Shapes of Silence', Episode 1: 'The Birdless Birdcage'

"There is a sound in this story that no one can hear."

[1] The Beginning

The third floor of an old apartment building, a south-facing balcony.
Every time the wind blows, the rusted railing creaks. There, sits a birdcage.

There is nothing inside the cage anymore.
Or rather, I am not even sure if there was anything there to begin with.
The day my sister passed away, that cage was left all alone by the window. A small, round shadow was cast upon the floor.

I took it in, along with that shadow.

—

[2] Sound

From that day on, I began to wake up every morning to a "sound."

A faint metallic sound, a squeak, a squeak.
It was not the sound of the wind shaking the birdcage.
It was ringing from further inside, deeper, from within.

It was... the sound of a bird.
Faintly, the sound of wings flapping inside the cage.
A raspy whisper, as if clearing a throat.

Yet, even when I open my eyes, there is no bird there.
The cage is empty. No matter how many times I peer inside, there is only silence.

—

[3] Memories of My Sister

My sister was a woman of few words.
Even if I spoke to her, all I would get back was a "Yeah" or "I see."
But it was different only when she was talking to the little bird.

"Are you cold?" "Do you like this song?"
My sister's voice only softened when she was addressing that small yellow bird.

I was a little jealous.
The bird died, I believe, a few winters ago.
But my sister did not throw the cage away.
And until the day she died, she kept it by the balcony window.

—

[4] Recording

One day, I opened the recording app on my smartphone.
In the middle of the night, I darkened the room, opened the window slightly, and waited for the sound.

Squeak, squeak.

The recording was successful. But it could also just sound like the wind.
However... to me, it sounded only like a "whisper."
Why was that? Even though the sound was recorded, I felt that I "did not want anyone else to hear it."
This voice, I felt, was something only I should listen to.

—

[5] Unspoken Words

That night, I had a dream.
My sister was inside the birdcage, singing quietly.
It was not words. It was just a melody, like the sound of wings, like breathing.
My sister's fingers were gently touching the iron wires of the cage.
In the dream, I said "Come out," but my sister only smiled and said nothing.

—

[6] Playback

After waking from the dream, I could not move for a while.
It felt as if a single feather had gently slipped deep inside my body.
When I placed my hand on my chest, there was a sound. Squeak, squeak—no, that might have been my heartbeat.

Even when morning came, I did not look at the birdcage.
I did not check if it would make a sound.
However, that day, I played the recorded audio for the first time.

When I pressed the play button, after a few seconds of silence, a faint sound was heard.
A clink, the sound of metal swaying.
And then, suddenly, a sound like a small breath.

I closed my eyes and listened to it.
Over and over again.
Each time it repeated, the sound lost its outline little by little.

As if there had been nothing there from the start.

—

[7] Letting Go

That weekend, I took the birdcage and walked along the old path in the park.
It was a place I often came with my sister. Long ago, we even came here for a walk with the yellow bird.

Small white flowers were blooming beside a bench.
They were swaying quietly where no one was watching.

I gently placed the birdcage in front of them.
I did not want anyone to pick it up.
I just thought that if it would make a sound one last time in the wind, that would be enough.

But the wind did not shake the cage.
The sound did not ring out.

That silence said everything.

—

[8] And, Like an Afterword

On the way home, I deleted the recording app from my smartphone.
I did not press the play button again.
Yet, sometimes in the back of my ears, I felt like I could hear that squeaking sound.

That was surely the sound of memory.
Something my sister cherished.
Something I was envious of.
And now, something that only I remember.

The bird is gone.
But the cage is still waiting for the wind somewhere.
Waiting for the moment when it will gently sway once again.

—

Afterword

Sometimes, things without sound remain the deepest.
That might be someone's words, a gaze, or perhaps the creaking presence of an old birdcage swaying in the wind.

This story is a tale of loss and memory, and at the same time,
it is a short piece that attempts to depict the idea that "even if you cannot touch it, it certainly remains."

The existence of a sister, the symbol of a bird, the silence of an empty birdcage.
All of these are "something" that remained unspoken, yet were certainly there.
And that "something" might perhaps gently overlap with the memories inside you, the reader.

The bird is no longer here.
But if you felt, even just a little, the sound that was ringing inside the birdcage in the back of your ears—that alone, I believe, gives this story a reason to have been born.

Thank you for your quiet reading.