“Grandmother’s medicine cabinet always smelled bitter,” Mei-Ling whispered, her wrinkled fingers tracing the intricate carvings on the ancient wooden cabinet. “Even now, fifty years later, that same astringent scent lingers.”

The cabinet stood in the corner of her cramped apartment, its presence both comforting and unsettling. In the dim light of dusk, shadows danced across its surface like restless spirits.

“Tell me about the cabinet again, Mother,” her daughter Jin urged, setting down two steaming cups of tea.

Mei-Ling’s eyes glazed over with memories. “Your great-grandmother was our village’s most respected healer. But that cabinet… it held more than just herbs and remedies.”

She paused, taking a sip of tea. “One night, during the great drought of ‘63, I saw her talking to it. The cabinet doors were swinging open and shut on their own, and inside… inside I saw faces in the darkness between the bottles.”

“Faces?” Jin leaned forward, her skepticism evident but curiosity piqued.

“Souls,” Mei-Ling corrected. “The souls of those she couldn’t save. She made a deal with them, you see. They would enhance her medicines’ power, and in return, she would remember them. Keep them company. Share their stories.”

The room grew colder. Jin wrapped her hands tighter around her teacup.

“Your great-grandmother saved hundreds of lives with her enhanced medicines. But each cure came with a price. The cabinet grew more crowded, more hungry. Sometimes at night, I’d hear them whispering, begging to be let out.”

“Is that why you never became a doctor, Mother? Despite your talent?”

Mei-Ling smiled sadly. “The day grandmother died, she tried to pass the cabinet to me. But I refused. I couldn’t bear the weight of all those souls, the responsibility of their stories. So the cabinet sealed itself, taking its secrets with it.”

Thunder rolled outside. The cabinet’s doors creaked.

“But now,” Mei-Ling’s voice grew urgent, “I’m dying, Jin. And these souls deserve better than eternal darkness. They need someone to remember them, to give meaning to their sacrifice.”

Jin stared at the cabinet, understanding dawning in her eyes. “Mother, are you asking me to…”

“Take it. Open it. Learn their stories. Maybe you’ll find, as I finally have, that the bitterest medicine often holds the sweetest cure - the healing power of memory and acknowledgment.”

The cabinet’s doors swung open with a soft sigh. Inside, among the dusty bottles and dried herbs, countless tiny lights flickered like fireflies, each one a story waiting to be told.

Jin reached out, hesitant but determined. As her fingers touched the wooden surface, the whispers began - a chorus of voices sharing tales of loss, love, and sacrifice.

Mei-Ling watched her daughter’s face transform with understanding. Sometimes, she realized, the greatest inheritance we can leave isn’t the power to heal bodies, but the wisdom to heal memories.

The bitter scent of ancient medicine filled the room, carrying with it the sweet promise of stories finally set free.