Before the Sound

Gabi does not remember the details of the day his mother died.
What remains is the smell of the hospital room and the angle of the light coming through the window.

A short while before that, as he was leaving, his mother handed him a small bottle.
There were few words.

“Keep it with you.”

It was neither a request nor an order.
That was what made it heavy.

The bottle fit easily in his palm, lighter than he expected.
Inside was a liquid the color of the sea—emerald green.
It moved when shaken.
Yet even when untouched, its position seemed to shift with the light.

On the label, a word was printed in hiragana.

Kiyouto.

He could read it.
But he could not grasp it as meaning.
Only later did he realize it was the name of a city.

Life in the Philippines never ran out of sound.
Voices, presence, constant connection to the outside world.
The bottle stayed on his desk.
He noticed it, but never tried to understand it.

When asked why he was going to Japan, Gabi said it was for music work.
That was not a lie.
But it was not the whole truth either.

The sound printed on the bottle would not leave his mind.
Not because he wanted to know its meaning,
but because he felt he needed to stand, just once, in the place it pointed to.

After a long journey, he arrived in Tokyo.
The airport was quiet despite the number of people.
Voices were low, footsteps aligned.
Outside, the light was strong, yet the sound did not push forward.

“It’s cold, isn’t it?”
A couple in the next seats glanced at each other and said it softly.
Gabi kept his eyes on the window, listening only to the temperature of their words.

The room prepared for him in Tokyo had only what was necessary.
When he opened the window, city lights came in.
Still, it was different from nights in the Philippines.
Something here was properly stopped.

He placed the bottle on the table.
Though he had not touched it, the liquid moved slightly.

He did not look for a reason.
His body seemed to accept that this was simply how it was.

A few days later, Gabi made a decision.
After glancing once more at the sound on the label,
he bought a ticket to Kyoto.

Kiyouto.

As the train left Tokyo, the world grew quieter.
People were still there.
Voices still existed.
But as the scenery changed, the sound drifted backward.

When he arrived in Kyoto, the air felt even lighter.
Cold, but not piercing.
Footsteps were absorbed into the ground.

After leaving his luggage, he stepped outside.
He walked while tracing the sound on the label in his mind.
He did not carry any further purpose.

Somewhere, a sound appeared.
A string.
It did not continue.
It stopped.
The interval was long.

After the sound disappeared, space remained.
Not remained—
it stood up.

Gabi found himself standing still.
Only later did he notice his breathing had deepened.

Back in the room, it was even quieter.
Closing the window did not feel like closing anything.

He placed the bottle on the table again.
The liquid moved once more,
its motion slightly different from before.

Gabi did not pick it up.
He felt that touching it might change something.

The next morning, he woke early.
Sound was distant.
Even though it was morning, nothing urged him forward.

At a corner, his feet stopped.
There was no reason.
The space seemed to drop by one layer.

A man was standing there.

Gabi could not tell his age.
It looked like a kimono—
or perhaps not.
He could not tell anything beyond that.
Only that the way he stood was different.

“You’ve come from far away.”

The man said it casually.

Gabi did not answer.
It did not feel like a question.

The man glanced once in the direction of the bottle, then looked away.

“You know,” he said,
“sometimes you hear sounds that cannot be heard.”

That was all.

The man walked off, quickly dissolving into the flow of people.
Gabi could not be sure whether he had truly been there.

Gabi found himself standing still.
Inside the bottle, the liquid swayed quietly.

There was no answer.
But the question had already been born.

Gabi began to walk again.
He felt that he wanted to live inside this time just a little longer.