The young man in the cabin often heard faint sounds coming from the walls as he wrote. When he would press his ear against the side of the room, he would sometimes hear a song, as if on the radio. Sometimes the sound was that of an air-conditioning unit, one with which the cottage wasn’t equipped. Often times when he pressed his ear against the floral wallpaper, he would hear two voices, moaning, the sound of skin against skin. He didn’t know what to make of any of it. At the end of each day, he would dip each page he’d written in tree sap and bury them all pell-mell around the forest, hoping some of them would turn to amber and last until someone else dug them up and translated them.