The mandolin hung on my bedroom wall like a strange fruit, its curves casting peculiar shadows in the late afternoon light. Mother said it belonged to Father before he vanished. Fifteen years, and still no answers.

“Maya, dinner’s ready!” Mom’s voice floated up the stairs, but I remained transfixed by the instrument’s weathered surface. The wood grain seemed to shift and swirl before my eyes, telling stories I couldn’t quite grasp.

What secrets do you hold? My thoughts drifted like autumn leaves. Why did he leave it behind?

“You’re staring at that thing again,” said Jamie from my doorway, arms crossed. My younger brother never understood my fascination. “It’s just an old mandolin.”

“It’s not just any mandolin,” I murmured, running my fingers along its unique mother-of-pearl inlays - intricate patterns I’d never seen on any other instrument. “Look at these markings…”

“Whatever. Mom’s made pasta.” He turned to leave, then paused. “You know, sometimes I think you’re obsessed with finding meanings that aren’t there.”

Aren’t there? The question echoed in my mind as I followed him downstairs. The kitchen smelled of garlic and memories - Sunday afternoons when Father would play that mandolin, its bright notes dancing through the house like scattered light…

“Maya?” Mom’s voice cut through my reverie. “You’re miles away again.”

“Sorry, I was just thinking…” The words trailed off as I noticed something new on our cork board - a postcard I’d never seen before, showing a street musician playing a mandolin in some European city.

My heart skipped. “When did this arrive?”

Mom looked up sharply. “What?”

“This postcard…” But when I turned back, it was gone. Just the usual bills and grocery lists remained pinned there.

That night, lying in bed, the moonlight painted silver strings across my ceiling. Was I imagining things? The mandolin’s silhouette seemed to pulse with an inner light.

A melody drifted through my half-dreams - notes I’d never heard before yet somehow knew by heart. My fingers twitched, muscle memory of strings I’d never played.

The next morning, I reached for the mandolin with trembling hands. Its weight felt different somehow. As I turned it over, something small fell from inside - a folded piece of paper, yellow with age.

Coordinates. A date. Today’s date, fifteen years ago.

My phone buzzed - a text from an unknown number: “The mandolin knows the way home.”

I looked up at my bedroom window. Outside, a street musician was playing a hauntingly familiar tune on a mandolin with mother-of-pearl inlays that caught the morning sun like scattered memories…

To be continued in the whispers between notes