One evening, on my walk home from work, the burden of unpaid bills weighed heavily on my mind. But as I neared the town square, a familiar tune brought me to a halt.
It was the lullaby I’d sung to my daughter, Lily, before she vanished from our lives 17 years ago—a song only she knew, about fields of flowers and sunlit dreams.
Across the square, a young woman stood, eyes closed, singing that very tune, a soft smile on her face. Memories of Lily filled me—the warmth she’d brought and the emptiness left by her absence. I felt a tug, drawing me toward her.
I kept telling myself it couldn’t be Lily, but my heart held onto hope.
As I approached, she finished singing and noticed me staring. “Didn’t like my performance?” she teased, grinning.
“No, it’s just… that song is special to me.” I stammered, fighting back emotions.
Her smile softened. “It’s special to me, too. It’s one of the few memories I have from early childhood. I don’t know where I learned it—I’ve always just known it.” She started to walk away, but I couldn’t let her go.
“Please,” I said, “could you tell me more?”
She paused, studying me, then nodded. We found a quiet café nearby. Her face, her voice, her laugh—all felt familiar, like pieces of a memory.
“Where did you learn that song?” I asked, my heart pounding.
She looked down at her coffee. “I don’t remember. It’s the only thing I remember from… before I was adopted. My adoptive parents told me my family died, but I’ve always felt there was more.”
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