A Jar Full of Murmurs

Creeping up the attic stairs into the quiet dark, I found an old ribbed glass jar resting by the banister post, its cork stopper pushed loosely to one side. When the cool house draft swept down the stairwell, the curved glass caught the air and let out a faint, hollow hum, like a distant flute singing to itself. I sat down on the dusty pine tread, tucked my feet together, and leaned my ear against the cool ribbed surface. Every creak of the rafters seemed to echo inside the glass belly, telling low, gentle stories that I stayed still to hear.