Every evening, Ana walked past the abandoned garden at the end of her street. Wild roses spilled over the broken fence, and ivy curled around the stone fountain. No one entered—it was said the place had forgotten joy.

One twilight, as fireflies lit the air, Ana heard it: a gentle melody floating through the vines. Drawn in, she found an old violin resting on the fountain’s edge, playing itself. The notes were tender, alive, and the flowers swayed as if dancing.

She closed her eyes and let the music carry her. When the song ended, she opened them to find a single rose placed at her feet, freshly bloomed and warm in her hand.

From that day on, whenever she felt heavy with silence, she returned. The garden always had a song waiting.