The older man moved closer to the piano, his eyes locked on the melody he had not heard in twenty years.

The girl played with trembling fingers, but every note was exact. Not learned from a teacher. Not copied from a book. Played like a memory passed through blood.

“Who taught you that?” he asked.

The girl did not stop playing.

“My mother,” she whispered.

The man’s face went pale.

The guests were silent now, no longer amused, no longer comfortable.

He stepped beside the piano, barely able to speak.

“What was her name?”

The girl looked up at him for the first time.

“Lena.”

The man gripped the edge of the piano.

From his pocket, he pulled a small gold music box and opened it with shaking hands.

The same melody began playing from inside.

The girl’s fingers stopped.

The man stared at her through tears.

“I wrote that song for my daughter.”

The girl blinked, confused.

“My mom said her father abandoned her.”

The man’s voice broke.

“No… I was told she died.”