The Concert in the Green Salon

More about The Concert in the Green Salon

Deeply hidden, where the shadows of the trees whisper stories and the moss covers the ground like a soft carpet, lives a marmot unlike any other. It lives in a cozy den beneath an old root, its bark tanned by the wind and creased by time. But what makes it truly special isn't its fine vest of pine-green velvet, nor the golden monocle that always sits askew on its small nose. It's its gramophone. A venerable piece, with a funnel of tarnished copper, listening to the world like an open ear. It stands on a tree stump, covered in lichen and gently wrapped in ivy vines—like an altar for the sounds that are allowed to awaken here. This morning, everything is ready. The marmot dusts off its vest, pulls its pocket watch from its side pocket—only to realize that it is precisely now. The right time. With a deliberate gesture, it places the needle on the shellac record, and a soft crackling fills the forest. Then: music. Old and delicate, as if it came from another time. A waltz, perhaps, or a forgotten melody once written for someone else. The stag with the royal antlers steps silently out of the thicket. Its steps are heavy and venerable. The young hare, still a little out of breath, scampers over and sits down in the grass with pricked ears. And from the shadow of a branch glides the eagle owl—its gaze wise, its feathers like a cloak of night. They all listen. Not with thought, but with their entire presence. It is as if the forest itself holds its breath. Sunbeams dance through the leaves, bathing the concert in a golden-green light. Ferns sway to the beat, beetles pause, even the rustling of the wind suddenly sounds like part of the melody. And the marmot? It cranks on, with a smile that is barely visible – but deeply felt. For this moment, it is conductor, musician, and host all in one. No applause will follow, no curtains will close. But in the heart of the forest, something was remembered that will never be forgotten: that music can connect. That silence speaks. And that even the smallest creature can carry an entire orchestra within it. When the record ends, the marmot bows slightly. The deer nods reverently. The hare almost claps, but then remains silent. And the eagle owl slowly closes its eyes once – as if it has understood what it was really about. Then the concert dissolves into the sounds of the forest. Only the crackling of the needle remains – like an echo from another world.