The Rusting Melody

The rain had finally let up, leaving the alley slick and reflecting the sickly glow of a neon sign from the main street. Sid dug his hands deeper into his worn hoodie pockets, the chill biting at the tips of his fingers. Beside him, Leo kicked a loose brick, sending a spray of fine, muddy water across Sid's already scuffed trainers. Sid didn’t even flinch.

“You enjoying that?” Sid asked, his voice a low rumble, barely cutting through the distant sirens.

Leo shrugged, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his shoulders. “Keeps the blood moving. Better than staring at… whatever that is.” He gestured with his chin towards a damp, flattened cardboard box that used to be a home for some unfortunate soul.

Sid grunted. “You’re easily entertained.”

“And you’re easily bored, which is worse, honestly,” Leo retorted, sidestepping a burst bin bag that looked suspiciously alive. “See, if you weren’t so perpetually underwhelmed by existence, maybe you’d find a hobby.”

“My hobby is observing your pathetic attempts at finding excitement,” Sid said, not looking at Leo, his gaze fixed on a splash of faded red paint on a peeling fire escape. It was probably a gang tag, or a heartbroken declaration, now just a smear against brick. “And it’s quite fulfilling, thanks.”

They shuffled further into the alley’s damp maw, the air growing heavier, smelling distinctly of mould and stale beer. It was a place the city forgot, a lung choked with its own refuse. A gust of wind, sudden and sharp, rustled through the rubbish, carrying with it the smell of cold sweat and something else, something metallic and faintly sweet.

Leo stopped dead. “What was that?”

Sid halted too, his breath catching, the chill suddenly sharper than just the weather. He heard it then, too. A sound that wasn’t a siren, wasn’t a car, wasn’t the wind. It was a faint hum, barely audible, like a trapped bee, or perhaps a tuning fork struck far, far away, vibrating just at the edge of hearing. His eyes scanned the grime-covered ground, the stacked pallets, the forgotten crates. And there, tucked almost artfully beneath a broken drainpipe, glinting dully, was something entirely out of place.

“Well, would you look at that,” Sid muttered, slowly stepping towards it. It was a box, no bigger than his palm, made of dark, tarnished brass. Intricate, faded carvings snaked across its surface, depicting what looked like stylised vines and a single, closed eye. It was a music box, an old one, the kind his gran might have kept on a dusty mantelpiece. Except this wasn't a mantelpiece. This was an alley, choked with grit and despair.

He knelt, the cold of the cobbles seeping through his jeans. He reached out a gloved hand, careful, almost reverent, as if touching something ancient and fragile. The hum intensified slightly, a vibration he felt more in his fingertips than heard. The brass was cold, smooth, and heavy. He picked it up. It felt… old. Not just old, but *lived-in*, as though it had absorbed decades of human touch, human secrets.

“Finders keepers?” Leo quipped, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He was peering over Sid’s shoulder, his expression a blend of curiosity and mild apprehension. “Looks like something a crazy cat lady would hoard, then forget in a fire.”

“It’s not just… forgotten,” Sid said, turning the box over in his hand. The bottom had a small, almost invisible latch. His thumb brushed against it, and with a faint *click*, the lid sprang open a fraction of an inch.

Inside, the mechanism was surprisingly intact, a tiny brass cylinder with minuscule pins, waiting to pluck at metal teeth. No tune, though. Not yet. But the hum, that strange, barely-there vibration, was definitely coming from it. It was like the box was… singing a silent song.

A Glimmer of Brass

“What’s the big deal?” Leo asked, pulling a packet of half-eaten crisps from his coat. “It’s a broken music box. Maybe some kid dropped it.”

“Kids don’t carry these,” Sid retorted, his gaze fixed on the intricate mechanism. “And it’s not broken. It’s… quiet. For now.” He closed the lid, the faint hum retreating to its barely-there thrum. “This is old. Proper old. And it’s clean, for being in *this* cesspit.” He pointed a chin at a particularly pungent puddle.

“So, a clean old music box in a dirty alley. It’s a paradox, Sid. Nothing more.” Leo crunched on a crisp, the sound jarring in the sudden silence.

“No, it’s not,” Sid corrected, standing up, brushing grime from his trousers. “It feels… heavy. Not just weight. Something else.” He tapped the brass box against his palm, a dull, resonant thud.

“Maybe it has sentimental value,” Leo offered, shrugging. “Someone’s gran died, they threw out her junk, forgot this gem.”

“Too deliberate,” Sid murmured, already walking out of the alley, the box clutched tight in his hand. “This wasn’t tossed. It was placed.”

They emerged onto the bustling main street, the sudden onslaught of exhaust fumes and chatter a stark contrast to the alley’s quiet decay. The late afternoon light, a thin, watery gold, did little to warm the damp air. Sid squinted, the music box still humming, a secret between him and the brass.

“Right. So, what’s the plan, detective?” Leo asked, falling into step beside him. “We take it to the lost and found? Post an ad on the neighbourhood forum? ‘Found: one creepy, humming music box, owner probably a ghost’.”

Sid ignored him. His eyes scanned the shopfronts, a mix of dreary takeaways, a laundrette, and an old antique shop. The antique shop, 'Curios & Keepsakes', had a dusty window display featuring a porcelain doll with a cracked face and a stack of yellowed books. A good place to start, if anywhere.

“Let’s try Agnes,” Sid said, pushing open the heavy, creaking door. A tiny bell jingled weakly above them, sounding as old and tired as the shop itself.

The interior was a labyrinth of forgotten things, a suffocating smell of dust, old paper, and beeswax. Every surface was cluttered: teetering stacks of vinyl, chipped ceramic figures, moth-eaten tapestries draped over overflowing mannequins. In the dim light, Agnes, a woman whose face was a roadmap of wrinkles, peered over a pair of spectacles perched on her nose. She was polishing a silver locket, her movements slow and deliberate.

“Sidney. Leo. Back for another existential crisis?” Her voice was raspy, like dry leaves scuttling across pavement. She didn't look up, just kept polishing.

“Not today, Agnes,” Sid said, stepping carefully around a wobbly display of ancient cameras. “Just a… consultation.” He held out the music box. “You ever seen anything like this?”

Agnes finally looked up, her rheumy eyes narrowing as she took in the brass box. She didn't touch it, just stared, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze. Recognition? Caution? “Old thing,” she muttered, her polishing hand pausing. “Victorian, maybe. Or a bit earlier. Not common.”

“The carvings?” Sid prompted, indicating the closed eye motif. “And this hum…”

She leaned back, a faint smile playing on her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. “Some things are best left undisturbed, boy. Old mechanisms. They remember. They hold onto tunes you can’t hear. Secrets you shouldn’t know.” She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “People go missing for less, you know.”

Leo shifted uncomfortably behind Sid. “Missing? What’s that got to do with a music box?”

Agnes just chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. “Everything has a story. Some stories are best left unread.” She finally picked up the locket she’d been polishing, slipped it into a velvet pouch, and placed it under the counter. “Now, are you buying or just browsing?”

Sid knew they wouldn't get anything more from her. Agnes rarely gave direct answers. “Just browsing, Agnes. Thanks.”

As they stepped back out onto the street, the humid air felt heavier. The music box in Sid’s hand pulsed with that faint, internal tremor. He glanced back at the shop, but Agnes was already hidden behind the clutter. That's when he noticed him.

A man, tall and thin, with a dark overcoat and a fedora pulled low over his eyes, was standing across the street, partially obscured by the awnings of a closed bakery. He wasn't doing anything, just standing, but his gaze felt like a physical weight. Sid met his eyes for a split second, and the man didn’t flinch, didn't look away, just held that unnerving stare. The hum in the music box seemed to sharpen, a faint, almost imperceptible *zing*.

They walked in silence for a block, the encounter with Agnes and the man unsettling them more than they let on. Sid tucked the box deeper into his pocket, the brass warm against his thigh. He could still feel the man’s eyes on his back, even after they turned a corner, leaving the bakery behind.

“Creepy old bat,” Leo finally broke the silence, trying for nonchalance. “And that guy… what was his deal?”

“Don’t know,” Sid admitted, his eyes still darting to reflections in shop windows, checking for a tail. “But he wasn’t waiting for a bus.”

Back in his cramped, one-room apartment above a sputtering dry cleaner, the smell of solvents always clinging to his clothes, Sid pulled out the music box. The faint hum was still there, but now, a rhythmic click had joined it, like a tiny, internal heartbeat. He examined the bottom again, where the latch was. There was a tiny indentation, barely visible, next to the hinge. He pressed it with his fingernail.

With another soft *click*, a small, hidden panel on the side of the box slid open. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded red velvet, was a miniature, sepia-toned photograph and a small, intricately carved wooden disc. The photograph showed a woman, young, with serious eyes and hair pulled back in a severe bun. She was holding… something. It was difficult to make out, but it looked like another box, similar to the one he held, though larger. And behind her, partially obscured by shadow, was a symbol etched into what looked like a stone wall—a closed eye, identical to the one carved on the music box itself. The wooden disc bore the same symbol.

The hum in the brass box intensified, now a tangible vibration against his palm. He looked at the woman in the photo, then at the symbol, then at the wooden disc. The pieces were starting to connect, forming a shape he couldn't quite discern, but it felt cold, sharp, and undeniably dangerous. He flipped the photo over. Faintly scrawled on the back, in elegant, looping script, were only two words: 'Willow Creek'.

Willow Creek. A long-abandoned industrial zone on the city’s forgotten outskirts, notorious for its crumbling factories and overgrown canals. A place people avoided, especially after dark. He stared at the name, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine. The music box vibrated, a faint, almost desperate tremor. He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to open the box again, to see if the internal mechanism had started to turn, to hear the tune it had been holding onto all these years. But before he could, a soft rap sounded at his door, two quick, insistent knocks. Not Leo's usual ramble, nor the landlord's heavy-handed thud. He froze, the music box now thrumming wildly in his hand, a silent song of warning.

He looked towards the door, then down at the photograph, the woman's serious eyes seeming to stare back at him. The hum in the box reached a frantic crescendo, feeling less like a mechanism and more like a terrified heart. He knew, with a chilling certainty that twisted his gut, that he wasn’t alone.

Someone knew he had the box. And they were here.

The knocking came again, louder this time, demanding.

His fingers tightened around the brass, the vibration almost painful now. Willow Creek. The woman. The symbol. He had stumbled into something, and whatever it was, it had just found him.