Joyce had grown used to the silence.
The house had always been quiet, but ever since her grandfather took to his bed, it felt heavier—like the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Thomas rarely spoke now. Most days, he simply lay there, eyes half-lidded, as if the world had already begun to drift away from him.
Joyce didn't know how to reach him anymore.
So she turned to the one thing she knew he loved—music.
In the past, her grandfather love to dance with her Nana Penelope, or Poppy, just like how he used to call her.
She spent the afternoon digging through old vinyl records stacked in worn boxes, their covers faded and edges curling with age. Dust clung to her fingers as she flipped through them, searching for something—anything—that might bring him back, even for a moment.
One by one, she played them.
Soft melodies filled the room, crackling faintly through the old player. She watched him carefully each time, searching for any sign—any flicker. And slowly, she saw it. The smallest shift in his expression. A quiet ease settling over him.
It was enough.
She then decided to find some more.
To help ease his grandfather.
It was in the back of a wardrobe—hidden beneath coats no one had worn in years—that she found a box.
Dust covered it thickly, untouched for what felt like decades.
Something about it made her pause.
Inside were personal things—small, forgotten pieces of a life she realized she had never fully known.
Among them, was another old viynl record.
It looked older than the rest. The cover had yellowed with time, the surface dull beneath a thin layer of dust. Unlike the others, this cover nearly empty, theres only a faded handwritten words on it.
For Thomas.
Her grandfather's name.
She hesitated for a moment before taking it with her and gently cleaning it, almost afraid it might fall apart in her hands.
When the needle touched down, the song began.
A woman's voice—soft, rich, and achingly beautiful—filled the room.
Silent nights I dream of you
I picture us together
But I kept wondering..
Am I in your dreams too?
In my heart your name is engraved
Love longs to meet each other
Yet I kept wondering...
Am I in your heart?
It wasn't just music. As the song continue, it lingered, wrapping around her chest, pulling at something she couldn't quite name.
I have sung my melody...
I have whispered my remedy...
I have abandoned my dreams and wishes
Yet why can't i touch your heart
If only you were belong to me...
I'll give you everything
Yet still why can't I touch your heart
I can't stop wondering...
Am I even in your heart?
Can't you just listen to me a little?
Listen to my symphony
Symphony only for you...
Joyce stilled.
She didn't realize how deeply she had fallen into it until she turned to look at her grandfather.
Tears ran silently down his cheeks.
Her breath caught.
"Grandpa?" she whispered, rushing to his side. "Is something wrong?"
He didn't answer.
He only closed his eyes, as if surrendering himself to the song, as if the music was something he had been waiting for… or something he had never truly left behind.
And the tears didn't stop.
—
A few months later, Thomas passed away.
Joyce returned to his house alone.
Grief lingered in every corner, tucked into the furniture, the walls, the quiet spaces he once filled. She moved through it slowly, sorting through his belongings—deciding what to keep, what to give away, what to let go.
There was a lot.
Old things. Careful things. A lifetime of memories packed into objects that now had no voice.
It was then she found the box again. Staying still in the back of the wardrobe just like how she had left it.
Joyce went through it all again, his grandfather's personal things that she would never heard the history behind it.
Then beneath them all was a smaller box.
Inside it… a journal.
Her fingers stilled as she opened it.
The handwriting was his.
Joyce shut it immediately.
It looked personal.
Like something she should never touch.
For days, she left it alone.
She told herself it wasn't hers to read. That some things were meant to stay buried. That whatever was written inside belonged to a version of her grandfather she had no right to uncover.
But the thought lingered.
And she missed him. She missed her grandfather.
The man she knew as gentle. Kind. Quiet.
She wanted to see him again. Or maybe.. just to hear his thoughts.
Eventually, longing and curiosity won.
Joyce opened the journal again.
And began to read.