"I'm telling you," Felix insisted, "that song wasn't me."

Pip looked up from her breakfast preparations to where a melancholy waltz was drifting down from the upper floors, despite Felix and his lute being firmly in the kitchen. The music carried a strange quality, like it was being played from inside a memory.

"Well, someone's playing up there," she said. "Lady Corvina?"

The raven shapeshifter glided down from her usual perch, resuming human form with a puzzled frown. "All our current guests are at breakfast. Besides, this melody..." She closed her eyes, listening. "It's familiar. Like something from..."

"Three weeks ago," Gus rumbled, entering with his morning flower arrangement. "The lonely dance master who stayed in room twelve. The one who taught his last waltz to an empty ballroom."

As if responding to the memory, the phantom music grew stronger. Footsteps could be heard overhead, moving in perfect three-quarter time.

"That's impossible," Pip started to say, but then remembered she was standing in a magical inn that changed location at will. "I mean, improbable. The dance master checked out."

"But his music stayed," Felix said softly, plucking a string on his lute. The note resonated with the ghostly waltz, and suddenly the kitchen filled with the echo of different music – the working song of the cook who'd visited last month, humming as she'd taught Pip her grandmother's recipes.

"Oh my," Lady Corvina breathed, her quill scratching frantically. "The inn isn't just keeping the music, it's keeping the moments. Felix, play that note again!"

He did, and this time they heard children's laughter from the garden, echoing from a family's visit two weeks ago. Another note brought the whispered stories of the traveling librarian who'd spent three days reading to the furniture.

"It's like..." Pip consulted her aunt's notebook, where new words were appearing. "Like the inn is collecting memories? But why now?"

"Because of him," Gus nodded toward Felix. "Since the binding, his music's been changing how the inn holds things. Making memories more... resonant."

The guest book on its pedestal suddenly fluttered open, its pages turning by themselves. Each signature began to glow faintly, and with each one, a different snatch of conversation or song echoed through the inn.

"Fascinating!" Lady Corvina hurried to examine the book. "The magical signatures are acting like... like sheet music for memories!"

Before anyone could respond, the front door chimed. A young man entered, carrying what looked like a musical instrument wrapped in cloth that seemed to shift colors with each step.

"Welcome to The Last Stop Inn!" Pip said automatically, then faltered as every remembered song in the building suddenly harmonized around the stranger.

"Thank you," he said with a slight bow. "I'm a collector of songs. I heard this place keeps them rather well."

Felix's lute string snapped with a discordant twang, and every memory in the inn went silent at once.

"I'm Thaddeus Melodykeeper," the stranger continued, either not noticing or politely ignoring the sudden silence. "I travel collecting songs of significance. Emotional resonance, magical harmonies, that sort of thing." He unwrapped his instrument – a strange crystalline harp with strings that seemed to be made of pure light.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"How... interesting," Lady Corvina said, casually positioning herself between Thaddeus and the guest book. "And what brings you to our particular establishment?"

"Word spreads," he smiled, running a finger along his harp strings. The note produced made the air ripple with potential. "A magical inn that wanders, a bound musician, memories taking musical form... quite the unique combination."

Felix touched his broken lute string, and the inn creaked protectively around him. "These aren't your memories to collect."

"Memories want to be shared," Thaddeus countered, playing another chord that seemed to pull at the echoes hiding in the inn's corners. "They grow stronger with each retelling, each replay. I simply... help them reach a wider audience."

The waltz from upstairs began to drift toward his harp like mist drawn to moonlight. The cook's humming song followed, and then the children's laughter.

"Stop!" Pip commanded, and to everyone's surprise, the memories froze in mid-air. She pulled out her aunt's notebook, which had begun glowing faintly. "The inn keeps these memories for a reason. They're not entertainment, they're... they're..."

"Ingredients," Gus said quietly. "Every innkeeper knows: hospitality isn't just about the present moment. It's about all the welcomes that came before, all the comfort yet to come."

Lady Corvina's quill scratched rapidly as she added, "The emotional resonance creates a foundation. Take away the memories, and you weaken the welcome."

Thaddeus played a more insistent chord, and the frozen memories trembled. "These songs could bring comfort to so many more people if I shared them. Why keep them locked away in one place?"

"Because they're not just songs," Felix realized, his fingers finding a new pattern on his lute despite the broken string. "They're anchors. Each memory helps the inn know where it's needed next." His music wove through the caught memories, strengthening them, and suddenly the guest book began to glow.

Pages turned by themselves, revealing a complex web of golden threads connecting every signature. Each thread hummed with stored memory, creating a melody that was somehow both new and ancient – the song of the inn itself.

"Oh," Thaddeus breathed, his harp dropping slightly. "I've never seen anything quite like..."

"That's because it's not meant to be seen," came a new voice. Everyone turned to find an elderly woman in a rocking chair that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago. "It's meant to be lived."

"Aunt Maple?" Pip gasped.

"Just an echo, dear," the figure smiled. "One of many the inn keeps for when they're needed. Like now." She turned to Thaddeus. "Young man, you're not the first to think memories are better freed than kept. But some songs need roots to grow. Some comfort comes from knowing others found peace in the same space, even if at different times."

The rocking chair creaked in harmony with Felix's careful playing, and slowly the captured memories began returning to their places – the waltz upstairs, the cooking song in the kitchen, the laughter in the garden.

Thaddeus lowered his harp. "I... I never considered memories could be load-bearing."

"Stay a few days," Pip offered, reading the situation as her aunt had taught her. "Let the inn show you why it keeps what it keeps. We have an excellent room for musicians – the acoustics adjust to match your mood."

----------------------------------------

Guest Book Entry: "Thaddeus Melodykeeper: Came to collect songs, stayed to learn why some must remain. The inn's melody is perfect as it is."

New Verse of Felix's Inn Song: "Where echoes weave through time and space, And memories find their rest, The Last Stop Inn keeps faithful watch, O'er stories deemed it blessed..."

Lady Corvina's Chronicle Entry: "Significant breakthrough in understanding memory-resonance architecture! Inn's structural integrity partially dependent on maintained emotional echoes. Query: Does this explain the building's remarkable stability despite constant relocation? Additional Note: First recorded appearance of an innkeeper echo. Must update theories on temporal hospitality practices."

----------------------------------------

Later, as Thaddeus settled into his room (already humming in tune with his presence), Felix turned to where Aunt Maple's echo had been. "Was that really...?"

"The inn keeps what we need," Gus said simply, replacing Felix's broken string with one that shimmered slightly. "And sometimes what we need is a reminder of why."

The guest book's pages settled into a new configuration, the golden threads of memory pulsing gently like a heartbeat. Somewhere upstairs, the lonely waltz found harmony with a new song just beginning, and the inn's memories grew a little richer, a little deeper, a little more like home.