As the days glided by, Mara added the music box to small rituals. She wound it while making tea in the afternoons; she let it play in the mornings when the house was still deciding whether it would be a working place or a resting place. Sometimes she would wind it twice and then call her sister, who lived in another city, and they would sit on the phone and not speak for much of the music’s length. The shared silence felt like a bridge.
Henry laughed then, and it sounded like someone removing a lid. “I suppose I’m your neighbor,” he said. “Small world.” music box soundfont