![1000089478.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmeR3nYg83Yk9bHxHx46wCrZbsroCV32tosCmZnMn9ssyj/1000089478.png) **The Sound of Gold** A Story of Memory, Healing, and Hidden Treasure. --- “ Gold isn't what shines in the light. It’s what echoes in the soul. ” — Haroon, the Desert Musician --- In a sleepy desert city called **Sirona**, nestled between bobby hills and ancient beach trails, there lived an old man named **Haroon**, known by all as the city's most mysterious musician. He played a **drum which is made of pure gold**. It was n’t polished. Yet every time Haroon struck it, the **air quivered** — not from volume, but from memory. His golden drum didn’t just make music. It awakened **stories**. --- People said the drum had been forged by desert gadabouts centuries agone, drafted from the melted coins of a fallen king. They believed the spirit of the king still lived inside it, and that when Haroon played, the king’s regrets echoed across the stacks. But Haroon noway spoke of legends. --- The sound was soft — further twinkle than song — yet it made Tariq’s casket thump and his eyes blur. **“ Why does it feel like. sadness? ”** the boy asked. Haroon smiled. **“ Because it’s not playing for you. Not yet. ”** --- Tariq came every week. He brought dates, water, formerly indeed a cracked glass as a gift. But Haroon noway let him touch the drum. Only hear. Until one day, the old man’s hands quivered too important to hold the mallet. He looked at Tariq with tired eyes and said **“ The drum does n’t need me presently. It wants you. ”** ![1000089509.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmVKj8uXeVUJF3RXFjJULXJowXWQLSzXdNLof7WHL7msf8/1000089509.jpg) source --- That night, Tariq struck the drum — gently. And he **heard it**. Not a song, but a **memory**. - A woman’s horselaugh. - The creak of a rustic wain. - The weeping of a child. His own mother, who had failed when he was just five. Tariq dropped the mallet, overwhelmed. Haroon jounced, as if he'd anticipated this. > he said. “ Not treasure but everything you allowed you lost. ” --- With each beat, the golden drum told Tariq stories - The scent of his mother’s chuck. - The moment his family rumored “ Don’t cry, ” before leaving for the megacity. None of these recollections were new but they were **buried**. Now, they came to life, golden and raw. --- Soon, others came. Not for Haroon, but for **Tariq and the drum**. - A trafficker flashed back the day he first held his invigorated son. - A eyeless man saw, in sound, the face of his mother. The golden drum, though old and worn, **glowed brighter each night**. Not in color — but in **meaning**. It had come the ** keeper of emotional treasure ** — the recollections people allowed were empty, forgotten, or gone ever. --- One morning, Tariq set up Haroon’s seat empty. On it lay a rustic shrine **“ You have heard the gold. Now be the gold. ”** From that day forward, Tariq noway played the drum for fame. Only for **healing**. Only when it called him. And when it did, the sound was deeper than music it was ** mortal **. It was **gold**, echoing through time. --- 🏆 My Entry for the MusaGold Contest This story was written for the( Gold Story Writing Contest)(https://steemit.com/world-of-xpilar/@musa-gold/write-to-win-the-gold-story-contest-powered-by-musagold-com-and-steem ) in collaboration with **MusaGold.com**. In this story, gold isn't substantial it's **remembrance**, **sentiment**, and the **rehabilitation sound of affection remembered**. --- 🧑‍🤝‍🧑 I Invite These Friends to Participate! @mohammad1076 @rmj @jannat07 @josepha --- ✨ Thank you for reading. May your recollections come your gold. ![1000089477.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmYPzNmiUygNRQQf1NCvMiSEGBAsMmkPgwrAtt66fYTcJZ/1000089477.jpg) source