When the letter arrived, postmarked from my old town, I almost didn’t open it. Fifteen years had passed since I last set foot in Ridgegrove, and that distance had softened memories I spent years trying to bury. But the moment I saw the school’s crest stamped in blue wax—a little oak tree wrapped in a banner—I felt something tighten in my chest.
Inside was a short message:
“Dear Alumni,
Your presence is requested at Ridgegrove Memorial School for the reopening of the 25-Year Time Capsule. Please join us for the ceremony this October 14th.
Your class item is missing. We believe you may have information.”
No signature. No explanation.
Just that.
I reread the line—Your item is missing—and something cold stirred across the back of my neck. I had been the one who placed our class item into the capsule. A simple object. Harmless. A small, wooden music box that played a tune we all used to hum on the playground. Why it would matter to anyone made no sense.
But the unease in my stomach refused to settle.
Three days later, I found myself on a train heading back to Ridgegrove.
Ridgegrove station hadn’t changed. The same iron benches, the same tall lamps humming faintly in the dusk. Even the smell—damp leaves and distant woodsmoke—rolled over me like a ghost from childhood.
A car was waiting for me, engine running. A man stepped out. Tall. Thin. His smile was polite in a way that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Ms. Hartley?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Mr. Gavel. The interim headmaster asked me to bring you directly to the school.”
He held open the back door. As I sat, I noticed something unsettling: the driver’s seat was speckled with a thin layer of dust, as if no one usually sat there. The car pulled out, engine whispering along the empty road. Ridgegrove looked even quieter than I remembered—houses dark, shops shuttered, the streets empty even though it was barely sunset.
“Is the event today?” I asked.
He didn’t answer immediately. “Not… exactly. There were complications.”
“What kind?”
“The capsule was opened early. Accidentally.” A pause. “Most items were found. Except yours.”
My fingertips tingled. The music box. Just a small wooden box with carved leaves and a tiny winding key.
“Someone might have taken it,” I said.
He nodded but didn’t look convinced. “Perhaps.”
The school appeared at the top of the hill, just as eerie as ever—its grey stone walls glowing pale under the rising moon. Windows dark. Playground empty. The oak tree in front stood like a sentinel, its shadow so long it almost touched the main steps.
As I stepped out of the car, a strange sensation washed over me—like someone had whispered my name but from far away. I turned.
Nothing.
Just wind moving through branches.
The halls of Ridgegrove Memorial felt smaller than I remembered. Mr. Gavel led me through the corridor, his footsteps silent despite the wooden floorboards that used to creak at every step.
Finally, we stopped before a room labeled ARCHIVES. Inside, the metal time capsule—about the size of a suitcase—sat open on a table. Items were spread out: letters, toys, a newspaper, class photos.
But the space where my music box should have been was unmistakably empty.
I stepped closer. “Do you mind telling me why my presence is related to a missing music box?”
Gavel clasped his hands behind his back. “Because… the music box has been heard.”
A soundless beat filled the room.
“Heard?” I repeated.
“Yes. The tune. Several nights ago, the janitor reported hearing music coming from behind the wall where the capsule was stored. When we opened it, everything was in place except your item.”
A chill crawled up my arms.
“And you think I—what? Took it 15 years ago and somehow placed it behind a wall?”
“We don’t think you took it.” His voice lowered. “We think it may be… calling you.”
The absurdity made me want to laugh, but the air felt too heavy.
“I’m not staying,” I said, suddenly desperate for fresh air. “This is ridiculous.”
I turned to go, but something stopped me cold.
A soft sound.
Barely audible.
Like the first note of a lullaby.
Da-da-da… daa-da…
The tune.
My tune.
The playground melody we used to hum.
The sound floated from somewhere deep in the school, echoing down the halls. Gavel’s face went white.
“It’s happening again,” he whispered.
The headmaster insisted I stay in the old staff house across the courtyard. He said it was “safer.” I didn’t understand what danger he meant, but exhaustion won.
The room they gave me had a single bed, a small window facing the courtyard, and wallpaper decorated with faded acorns.
I barely slept.
Every time my eyes drifted shut, I heard a faint trace of the melody—sometimes near my door, sometimes drifting from the courtyard. Just when I strained to listen, it would fade.
By dawn, I’d convinced myself I was imagining things.
But when I stepped outside, something waited for me on the ground.
A footprint.
Small. Child-sized.
And slightly smeared, as if whoever made it dragged their heel.
There were more. Leading from the edge of the courtyard toward the oak tree.
The wind rustled the leaves above. The branches groaned.
And for a split moment, I swore the tree exhaled.
I approached it. My breath trembled. Something stirred beneath the soil—a faint vibration. Like breathing.
Beneath the roots, something glinted.
I crouched.
A small, round piece of metal. A winding key.
The key from my music box.
Fresh, polished, untouched by years.
I jerked my hand back.
“Ms. Hartley?”
I spun. The headmaster, Dr. Kulden, stood a few feet away.
“You found… something?”
I nodded mutely.
He exhaled. “It’s as we feared.”
“What is it?”
“The capsule was buried beneath the oak for two months in ’99 before being relocated. We think… something happened during that time. Something none of us understood. Your music box was the last item placed inside. And after it was buried, strange things began happening.”
My heart pounded.
“What kind of things?”
“Voices on the playground. Footsteps after dark. The children humming your melody without knowing where they learned it.” He swallowed. “One night, the tune played from the tree itself.”
I stared at the oak, its branches twisting into the morning fog.
“What are you saying?”
“That your music box may not have been stolen.” His voice dropped. “It may have moved on its own.”
That evening, I insisted on searching the school again. Logic demanded explanation. Maybe someone was playing a prank. Maybe the tune wasn’t mine. Maybe everything had an answer.
We checked the classrooms. The hallways. The gym. The staff lounge.
Nothing.
Until we reached the basement.
The old storage room was colder than the rest of the building. As soon as the door swung open, the melody spilled out, soft and clear.
Da-da-da… daa-da…
The air thickened.
“It’s here,” Gavel whispered.
I felt drawn forward, pulled by something invisible. The tune wove around me, gentle, almost soothing.
I reached a tall cabinet pushed against the wall.
“That wasn’t here yesterday,” Kulden murmured.
But I barely heard him.
The music vibrated inside the cabinet.
My trembling hands pushed the doors open.
Inside was only darkness.
Deep, black emptiness.
The tune grew louder.
Da-da-da… daa-da…
I leaned closer.
A pair of eyes opened inside the darkness.
Small.
Childlike.
Reflecting the dim light like an animal’s.
I staggered back.
The cabinet door slammed shut with a violent crack.
The music stopped.
“Enough,” Gavel said. “We’re leaving.”
Back in the staff house, Dr. Kulden paced restlessly.
“You should know the full story,” he said finally. “During the months the capsule was buried beneath the oak, a student went missing.”
My breath caught.
“A child?”
“A seven-year-old boy. Liam Avery.”
I remembered him. Quiet. Lonely. Soft curls. He used to hum the tune from my music box.
“He was last seen near the oak. We searched everywhere. Police were called. Nothing.”
A heaviness settled inside me.
“And you think this has something to do with the music box?”
“We don’t know. But his disappearance coincided with the strange occurrences.”
I felt the room tilt slightly.
“What does this have to do with me?”
Kulden met my eyes. “Because the music box was the last thing Liam touched.”
That night, sleep was impossible. Every shadow felt too deep. Every creak too familiar.
At midnight, the melody started again.
Right outside my door.
Da-da-da… daa-da…
Slow.
Inviting.
Haunting.
I rose and opened the door.
A small figure stood at the end of the hallway.
Child-sized.
Still.
His head tilted, listening.
“Liam?” I whispered.
He turned.
The moonlight touched his face.
Soft. Pale. Eyes reflective like glass.
The melody seeped out—not from him, but from the air itself.
He drifted backward toward the courtyard.
And I followed.
He stopped beneath the oak tree.
The wind circled us, whispering through branches.
Liam pointed at the base of the tree.
The soil shifted.
Roots trembled.
A wooden box pushed up through the earth.
My music box.
Untouched by time.
Liam stepped closer and placed both hands over mine.
His touch was cool.
Filled with something gentle.
The wind rose.
Leaves spiraled.
And then he dissolved into the night air, drifting like mist.
The melody faded with him.
The courtyard fell silent.
Peaceful.
As though something long trapped had finally been freed.
I keep the music box on my desk now.
It doesn’t play on its own anymore.
But sometimes, when wind moves through the trees, I hear a faint echo of that lullaby.
And I always pause to listen.