“These headphones…” Sarah whispered, her trembling fingers tracing the worn leather padding. The familiar warmth seemed to pulse beneath her touch, a beacon of comfort in this cold, dusty attic.

The antique headphones had appeared mysteriously on her doorstep that morning, wrapped in brown paper with no return address. Only a cryptic note: “Listen carefully to what was lost.”

“I know these,” she murmured to herself. “But how…?”

Her grandmother had owned an identical pair, decades ago. Sarah remembered curling up in Gran’s lap as a child, sharing the headphones while they listened to old vinyl records. But Gran’s headphones had been lost in the fire that claimed both her life and her Victorian mansion twenty years ago.

With hesitant movements, Sarah slipped them over her ears. The padding settled against her skin with that same comforting warmth she remembered from childhood.

A soft crackling filled her ears, then a voice - Gran’s voice - emerged through waves of static:

“Sarah, darling, if you’re hearing this, then they’ve found their way to you at last.”

Sarah’s breath caught. “Gran?”

“Time moves differently here, love. The fire hasn’t happened yet. But it will, unless…”

The static grew louder, Gran’s words fading in and out: “…basement…music box…must destroy it before…”

A violent burst of interference made Sarah wince. When it cleared, she heard screaming - distant but unmistakable. The smell of smoke filled her nostrils.

“Gran? Gran!”

The attic dissolved around her. Sarah found herself standing in her grandmother’s familiar parlor, but whole and unmarred by flame. Moonlight streamed through lace curtains. The grandfather clock showed 11:47 PM.

“The night of the fire,” Sarah whispered.

She rushed toward the basement door, heart pounding. The steps creaked beneath her feet as she descended into darkness. There, on a shelf, sat an ornate music box she’d never seen before.

As she reached for it, a raspy voice spoke behind her: “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Sarah whirled. A tall figure stood in the shadows, face hidden.

“Who-”

“The box keeps me here,” it said. “Keeps me young. Your grandmother discovered my secret. That’s why she had to burn.”

Sarah’s fingers closed around the music box. “You killed her.”

The figure lunged. Sarah hurled the box against the stone wall. It shattered with an otherworldly shriek.

The basement erupted in flames.

Sarah jerked upright in her own attic, gasping. The headphones slipped from her ears, lifeless and cold.

Her phone buzzed - a text from an unknown number: “Thank you, love. I can rest now. -Gran”

Sarah smiled, tears rolling down her cheeks. She picked up the headphones, but they crumbled to dust in her hands.

Later, she would wonder if it had all been a dream. But the lingering scent of smoke in her hair, and the small burn mark on her finger where she’d touched the music box, suggested otherwise.

Sometimes late at night, she swears she can still feel their phantom warmth against her ears, whispering secrets lost to time.