The man's voice was hoarse. Not from age alone, but from time spent unused—like a gate left to rust in silence.
"She always walks ahead," he murmured again, his fingers drumming faintly on his knee. "Every time I dream of her. We're on a road, orange sky behind us, and she's barefoot… always barefoot. Laughing. Never looking back."
He stopped, eyes unfocused.
"I try to catch up. I call out sometimes. I think she hears me. But then…"
He exhaled sharply, like someone trying to remember something already lost.
The boy sat beside him, watching the lantern between them. The flame pulsed softly—not like the urgent flares of sorrow it gave when a trapped soul cried out—but steady, like a heart still beating through the fog.
"She's not dead," the boy said quietly.
The man turned to him. "Who?"
"The woman in your dreams."
The man blinked, then let out a small, empty laugh.
"Maybe not. But if she ain't, I probably broke her heart somewhere back there. Somewhere I can't even reach anymore."
His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his bag. He pulled out an old cigarette tin and opened it—not to smoke, but to look at what was inside.
Inside were pieces of paper, yellowed and soft. One was a page torn from a school notebook with faint ink that had almost faded: a child's drawing. Two stick figures holding hands. One had wild hair. The other wore a long skirt and held what looked like a guitar.
The man stared at it.
"She used to draw like that," he muttered. "Was always sketching on napkins, receipts, gum wrappers. Anything."
The boy glanced at the drawing.
"Who was she?"
The man was quiet for a long time.
Then finally: "I don't know."
The boy looked up.
"I can feel her," the man said. "But I don't remember her name. Her face is gone. Her voice is fog."
The boy placed the lantern closer between them.
"She remembers you."
The man laughed bitterly. "Then she's a fool."
"No," the boy said. "She's waiting."
They sat in silence as dusk crept in. The cemetery shadows grew long, and the wind carried the scent of burning candles and frangipani blossoms.
The boy pulled something from his satchel—a torn map of the local province. He spread it out beside the lantern.
"Do you remember where you're from?"
The man shook his head. "Places come and go. I wake up in shelters, sometimes streets. Names don't stick. But… there was a lake. A pier. And music. Always music."
The boy nodded. He traced his finger along the coastlines and rivers.
"Here," the man whispered, pointing. "That bend. That's it. That's where I used to sit."
The boy folded the map again. "Then we'll go there."
The man looked at him, startled. "Why?"
"Because maybe she's still there."
The man didn't answer, but something flickered behind his eyes. Not hope. Not yet. But maybe a thread of it.
They traveled the next morning.
The boy borrowed an old bicycle from a nearby carpenter who owed his grandmother a favor. The man walked beside him with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
It took most of the day. The sun was gentle, the sky cloudy but kind.
By late afternoon, they reached the lake.
It wasn't large. More like a widening in the river, where old boats slept beside a splintered pier. A small wooden bench sat beneath a tree with its bark carved by names that time had mostly erased.
The man's steps slowed.
He stared at the pier.
"I've been here before," he said, almost like a prayer.
The boy said nothing.
The man sat on the bench and buried his face in his hands.
Then, softly—
"She sang here."
The boy looked at him.
"She sat right there," the man said, pointing to the end of the pier. "Barefoot. Guitar on her lap. Said the world didn't need perfect songs—just honest ones."
The man's shoulders shook.
"I think I loved her," he whispered. "But I got scared. Left. Thought I wasn't enough. Or maybe I just didn't believe in being remembered."
The boy stepped closer. The lantern flared gently.
"She never stopped waiting," he said. "You forgot—but the light didn't."
The man looked up, eyes full of disbelief.
"She used to call me 'Songbird,'" he said suddenly. "Said I always hummed without realizing it. Even when I was nervous. Even when I was leaving."
The boy smiled. "She taught you how to whistle, didn't she?"
The man stared at him. Then nodded slowly.
"She did…"
And then, with a hand still trembling, the man raised the old harmonica he had carried in his duffel bag all this time—too afraid to open it, too afraid to remember.
He played a single note.
Wavering. Rough.
Then another.
And another.
The tune came. Unfamiliar to the world, but not to the soul.
The lantern pulsed once. Twice.
Then fell still.
Not because someone had passed.
But because someone had finally come home to himself.
The boy sat beside the man as the sun dipped behind the trees.
"Will I ever see her again?" the man asked.
The boy looked at the lantern.
"If you follow the light," he said gently, "you'll find her again. Somewhere beyond remembering."
And for the first time since the cemetery steps—
The man smiled.