The Book of Echoes

This old man has told stories all his life: tales of generals and ministers, tales of heroes and swordsmen. Now that I'm retiring, I've changed my subject to this one. There are no generals, ministers, heroes, or swordsmen in this book, only some voices that never quite faded away. Some belong to people, some to things, and some are impossible to identify. They were left behind in the mountains, in the sea, atop towers, beneath boats. They harm no one, but they don't save anyone either. They simply wait: for a reply, for a name, for someone to finish what they couldn't say. When I was young, I didn't understand why the rules my master passed down said that storytellers should strike the block erratically and raise their voices abruptly. Only after handling so many cases did I understand: storytelling, at its root, is a way of giving these voices a chance to speak. Every time I say,