A Forgotten Melody

The care home was quiet that afternoon, the kind of quiet that hummed with ticking clocks and the occasional rattle of a tea trolley. Sarah sat by the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes were clouded, not just by age but by the fog that had stolen names, faces, and years from her.

Her daughter, Emily, visited every Thursday. She had grown used to repeating herself, to being called “nurse” or “dear” rather than “Emily.” Yet she came anyway, with flowers or biscuits, hoping for a flicker of recognition.

That Thursday, Emily carried something different: an old CD player, the kind with a scratched lid and buttons that stuck if you pressed too hard. Tucked under her arm was a disc labelled simply in faded marker: Our Songs.

She placed it gently on the table. “Mum, I thought we could listen to some music today.”

Sarah didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the garden outside where autumn leaves swirled. Emily pressed play, and after a crackle of static, a tune drifted through the room: soft piano, the warm lilt of a voice singing about moonlight and promises.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Sarah’s fingers twitched. Her head tilted, almost imperceptibly.

Emily held her breath.

Sarah whispered, barely audible: “Frank…”

Emily’s heart leapt. Her father’s name. She hadn’t heard it pass her mother’s lips in months.