The loudest words are heard–in silence.
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Snowball and her owner, Michelle, loved the rustic charm of Weston–the lush, green fields and countless apple orchards made it every little dog’s dream.
And the neighbours. Weston was the sort of town where everyone knew everyone else. Friendship among Westonites was not optional–it was expected.
And so Weston basked in its sameness.
Until Elly, a hard-of-hearing teen, found a letter in her mailbox.
Coded.
In tactile morse.
Pointing her to Room 12, West Conservatory.
Of course, Snowball wanted to get her nose into everything.
Literally.
Tail wagging, she walked up to Elly, who held it limp in her hand.
But the little West Highland Terrier whined—before touching it.
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“Snowball, fetch.” Snowball, as usual, hid her expert recall skills.
“Hey, you know how to return that! Stop fibbing!” Michelle threw her hands up in the air. “All right, no reward.”
Snowball snuck forward and sat, cocking a contrite ear.
“Well, can’t get angry with you.” Michelle gave the mischievous pup a ruffle.
Their rhythm broke.
Elly.
She approached them, the letter in hand.
Michelle straightened herself, on instant edge.
Elly’s usual off-the-wall demeanour was–
Different.
Her hands were moving faster than an expert typist’s.
And Snowball–well–wasn’t Snowball.
The little dog fixed her gaze on Elly, her tail pointed straight up.
But Elly finally spoke.
“Michelle–I need to find out what’s going on with this.”She waved the letter. News travelled fast around Weston–it had reached Michelle two hours after the fact.
“Can I borrow Snowball? She bristled before I could even show the letter to you. Perhaps she sniffed something I couldn’t feel.”
Determination covered Elly’s face. She wasn’t asking lightly–this was personal.
Michelle drew back and stared, without a word.
At first.
But Snowball went over to Elly and sat by her.
Michelle’s gaze darted from her neighbour to her dog.
Its back arched and tense.
She finally spoke.
“Ok, just for a while.”
The little dog didn’t choose this case. It chose her.
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Michelle watched Snowball settle beside Elly.
But the little dog wasn’t sitting right.
Snowball wasn’t–relaxed.
Michelle knew it wasn’t her paranoia.
It was gut instinct.
She stepped forward, taking the letter from Elly’s shaking hands.
She read it, wordless.
After a while, she looked up.
“I know something about this. I’m so sorry the conservatory fire took your grandfather.” She continued, carefully. “You’re not the first in Weston to go looking for answers. But something there shouldn’t be–woken.”
She paused.
“Westonites say someone left the fire–quietly. Your grandad–” She placed a gentle hand on Elly’s shoulder–“Might have known something he shouldn’t.”
She continued.
“Room 12 is now locked. I know you need answers. Take Ball with you.”
The little dog looked up at her in acknowledgement.
“But if she starts barking–RUN.”
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The West Conservatory was a mass of burnt ruins.
Fenced off.
Broken vines.
Rotting wood–a foul scent.
Snowball and Elly crept in and were greeted by burnt walls and warped metal.
On the floor was sheet music, half-melted.
Room numbers on the charred oak doors were visible–barely.
The girl and dog sensed that the building hadn’t just burned.
It wanted.
Room 12 wanted.
Closure hadn’t touched it–yet.
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Elly and Snowball stepped in front of Room 12’s half-hinged door.
She gripped the door handle.
Inside was a charred piano–the odour of burnt wood assailed her nostrils. On top of it sat a box labelled–
For Songbird.
Someone had addressed it–to her.
She pried the tactile morse lid open. Inside was a reel recorder. A taped confession.
Snowball snarled.
Guttural.
Low.
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Fingers shaking but brave, Elly pressed the recorder button.
Soft, measured footsteps.
A tape-recorded message.
“You were never meant to find this. But somehow, I hoped you would.”
In front of them stood an older man, his hand scarred. His face, half-burnt, bore no recognition of Elly.
But he did know Snowball.
He faced the dog.
Snowball bared her teeth.
“You should have stayed out of this.” He waved a knife in front of the little Westie.
It hit Elly.
The knife.
The voice.
The scar.
Grandpa’s killer.
Bob Greene, the conservatory’s main conductor.
His green eyes couldn’t ignore her Grandad’s success with the conservatory’s students.
The fire was not about silence–it was about secrets.
Elly placed the recorder within hearing reach.
She recalled Michelle’s warning.
“If she barks….”
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Snowball barked–she wasn’t friendly.
Michelle’s warning rang louder in Elly’s head.
She ran to the door.
Snowball stayed, growling. She slowly approached the man.
“You were never meant to find this…”
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The tape-recorded message triggered the sprinkler system–set by Elly’s grandpa.
It left an escape route–just for her–and a very wet Greene.
She’d heard the truth.
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Elly darted out of the conservatory, soaked but safe. Snowball shook off the sprinkler’s water, the daylight creating rainbow hues within each droplet.
Elly was pale.
But resolute.
Nearby was Michelle–waiting for them, face worried.
The two girls exchanged glances–wordless, but ripe with meaning.
A shared secret.
A shared protector.
Snowball.
The dog that knew what no one else did.
Snowball rested her head in Elly’s lap.
The loudest barks are heard–in silence.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 