Haunting Sounds

This one is my first written piece for a while, because the group was too busy organising an event for living writers week that was held in Dover, on the 24th of August. It went very well, I'm happy to say, and because of it we have received a new member with a great talent!
Welcome, Robyn!
Anyway, I enjoyed this topic very much, but I am slightly put out to find that no spell check accepts the word "Busks". For these that know as much as the spell check, that means to play music in a market or on a corner, or wherever, so long as it's legal, with a hat or case out to collect money. Well, even if it's illegal, really.
No, that doesn't mean that you can just play your Walkman really loud on portable speakers and hope.
Anyway, on with the story.

There is a blind man who sits at the corner, day after day. He is old, hands worn and face weatherbeaten. And he just sits, and listens to the rest of the world go by.

There is a boy that busks in the market every Saturday, fingers caressing melodies from wooden flutes. Time slows, and the sound of coins falling into his case is like the ringing of chimes to accompany his music.

There is a bird in a cage that never sings. It sits on its' perch by the window, and stares with dazed eyes. So close to the sky, never to spread its wings.

There is a song with no notes sung by a girl who cannot hear. A wordless, raw, tuneless chant which haunts you long after you walk away.

There is the sound of piano music that echoes from a house with windows flung wide, no matter the weather. A composers gift to the world.

There is a world within a snow-globe, a tiny village full of life. And when you shake it, the snow falls in chaotic swirls that spiral downwards, and you feel as if you are spiraling as well, down into new land. A world filled with music and laughter. Until the sounds of screaming pull you away, and you are flung back into reality.

And, like the snow, these sounds and moments spiral onwards, until they fall back to where they dwelled before, to be shaken again by the hand of time. And I wonder, can a sound come back to haunt you?