When I was ten, my father passed away suddenly. The last gift he ever gave me was a small singing teddy bear — one that played a gentle tune when you pressed its paw. On the day of his funeral, I held it tightly as the melody looped again and again, like a heartbeat I couldn’t let go of. Over the years, the sound faded, but its meaning deepened — it wasn’t just a toy anymore. It was the last piece of him I had left.
Two decades later, when my own son turned seven, I decided to pass that same teddy bear down to him. It felt like more than a gesture — it was a bridge between generations, connecting the grandfather he’d never meet to the grandson who carried his smile. But when my son pressed the bear’s paw, nothing happened. The music was gone.
I thought it just needed new batteries. As I opened the small compartment, something unexpected caught my eye — a tiny, yellowed cassette tucked next to the battery box. My heart skipped. I hadn’t seen a cassette in years. I couldn’t imagine how it had stayed hidden all this time.
I found an old tape recorder in the attic, brushed off the dust, and pressed play.
Then I heard it — his voice.
My dad’s voice. Warm, calm, and familiar, like no time had passed at all. “Hey, kiddo,” he began, his tone soft and steady despite the years. He read my favorite childhood stories, cracked the same jokes he used to tell, and shared little memories of our time together — ones I didn’t even remember until that moment. Tears came before I realized I was crying.
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