The nursing home was quiet.
Peaceful.
Larger than she expected, well-kept in a way that felt gentle rather than clinical. The kind of place where time seemed to move slower.
She was led to the garden.
And there—
She saw her.
An elderly woman sat alone on a bench.
Her hair, now completely white, was neatly arranged. Wrinkles lined her face and hands, marking the years that had passed. Her eyes were closed, her posture relaxed.
She looked… peaceful.
Content.
Softly, almost absentmindedly, she hummed to herself.
A melody Joyce didn't recognize—
But somehow, it felt familiar.
Joyce hesitated.
For a moment, she simply stood there, watching.
Then, slowly, she walked forward and sat beside her.
There was a brief silence.
And then, quietly—
"…Margo."
The woman's humming stopped.
Her eyes opened.
She turned to look at Joyce.
And for a second—
Joyce wasn't sure.
Did she turn because she recognized the name?
Or simply because someone had spoken beside her?
There was no way to tell.
Still—
Those eyes.
Time had changed her, that much was undeniable.
But even so—
There was something there.
A quiet depth. A lingering softness. A kind of beauty that had not disappeared, only settled into something calmer, something harder to define.
She didn't speak.
She only looked at Joyce.
Gently.
Unreadable.
Joyce felt her chest tighten.
She wasn't sure why.
Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was the weight of everything that had led her here.
Or maybe—
It was something else.
Something about this woman that she couldn't quite explain.
Something that pulled at her, quietly but firmly.
Like gravity.
Joyce swallowed.
"…Did you… used to sing?"
Her voice came out softer than she expected.
Careful.
Testing.
The woman blinked slightly, as if the question had reached somewhere far away.
There was a pause.
Then, slowly—
"Yes… I did."
Her voice was quiet. A little unsteady with age.
But even through the slight tremble, Joyce could hear it—
Something gentle.
Something clear.
Like a melody that had faded with time, but never truly disappeared.
It wasn't hard to imagine it filling a theater once.
"…In theaters… a long time ago?" Joyce asked again, a little more certain now.
The woman gave a small nod.
A faint smile followed.
"Long ago."
Joyce's chest tightened.
Then, slowly, she reached into her bag.
And pulled out the vinyl record.
"I… found this," she said, holding it out. "I was wondering if you might recognize it."
The woman's gaze fell onto it.
And she went still.
For a moment, there was nothing.
No reaction Joyce could clearly read.
Just silence.
Then—
Gently—
The woman reached out.
Her fingers traced over the surface, slow, careful… until they stopped at the handwritten words.
For Thomas.
Her touch lingered there.
And something in her expression changed.
Softened.
Her eyes, once unreadable, turned quiet.
Almost… tender.
"…Thomas."
She said his name softly.
As if it had never truly left her.
And in that moment—
Joyce found her answer.