In a quiet town nestled between misty hills and whispering woods, there was an old antique shop known only to a few. The sign above the door read "Eldridge & Sons," but no one knew who the sons were. The shop had stood for over a century, its windows always dusty, its shelves always full of strange trinkets that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. One autumn evening, a young woman named Lila wandered into the shop, drawn by a peculiar scent—something like burnt sugar and old parchment. She had been searching for a gift for her grandmother, but the moment she stepped inside, she felt as though time had slowed. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the creak of floorboards beneath her feet. The shopkeeper, a thin man with silver hair and eyes like polished obsidian, greeted her with a nod. He didn’t speak much, just gestured toward the shelves. Lila wandered among the objects, each more curious than the last: a pocket watch that never ticked, a teacup that always held warm tea, a mirror that reflected nothing but shadows. She paused at a small wooden box, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift when she looked away. “Do you know what this is?” she asked, turning to the shopkeeper. He studied the box for a long moment before answering, “It’s called the Echo Box. It holds memories. Not your own, but others’.” Lila frowned. “Memories? Like… ghosts?” The shopkeeper simply smiled. “Some would say so.” She opened the box, revealing a single white feather resting on velvet. As she touched it, a chill ran up her spine. A voice whispered in her ear, not spoken aloud, but felt deep in her bones. It was a woman’s voice, soft and sorrowful, speaking in a language she didn’t recognize. Then, just as quickly, the sensation vanished, leaving her breathless. “Be careful,” the shopkeeper warned, his voice low. “Not all memories are meant to be found.” Lila left the shop with the feather tucked in her coat, unable to shake the feeling that something had changed within her. That night, she dreamed of a woman standing in a rain-soaked alley, clutching a similar feather, her face twisted in fear. When she woke, the feather was gone, replaced by a cold, damp spot on her pillow. Over the following weeks, Lila began to notice odd changes. Her reflection in the mirror sometimes moved without her, and she would hear whispers when no one was around. She tried to forget the feather, but it lingered in her thoughts, pulling her back to the shop. One evening, she returned, the shopkeeper now absent, the door slightly ajar. Inside, the air was heavier, the light dimmer. The Echo Box sat on the counter, open, its contents untouched. But as she approached, she saw a new object inside—a small, cracked mirror, its surface rippling like water. Curiosity overpowered caution. She reached out, and the mirror pulled her in. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but when she finally opened her eyes, she was no longer in the shop. She stood in a narrow alley, the same one from her dream. Rain fell steadily, and a woman stood nearby, hugging herself against the cold. “You found it,” the woman said, her voice echoing strangely. “I’ve been waiting for someone to find it.” Lila turned, but the woman was gone. In her hands, she held the feather again, and the mirror now rested in the corner of the alley, reflecting nothing but the rain. When she returned to the shop, it was gone. No sign of it existed, as if it had never been there. Only the feather remained, and the whisper still echoed in her mind. She never spoke of what happened, but sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could feel the weight of other lives pressing against her, their stories lingering in the spaces between her own. And she wondered—were they truly memories, or had she become part of something far older, far stranger, that had simply waited for the right person to find it? The Echo Box remained somewhere, waiting for the next curious soul to open it. And perhaps, somewhere in the world, another feather lay hidden, waiting to be found.