Harmony sat on the park bench, her fingers moving deftly across the strings of her guitar. The melody she played was haunting yet beautiful, echoing through the trees of the quiet park.

She lost herself in the music, letting her sorrow flow through the notes. It had been a week since she lost her mother, but the pain was still so raw. Playing her guitar was the only thing that soothed her aching heart.

As her song came to an end, Harmony became aware of a presence beside her. She looked up to see an elderly man standing there, a serene smile on his wrinkled face.

“That was lovely,” he said. “You have a gift.”

Harmony flushed. “Thank you. Playing helps me… cope.”

The old man nodded. “Music has a way of healing the soul.”

He gestured to the empty space on the bench. “May I?”

Harmony nodded, and the man sat down with a soft groan. He closed his eyes as a breeze ruffled his white hair.

“What’s your name?” he asked after a moment.

“Harmony.”

The man smiled. “How fitting. I’m Henry.”

He nodded towards her guitar. “Would you play me another song? It’s been a long time since I heard something so beautiful.”

Harmony studied him for a moment, then lifted her guitar once more. As her fingers began to play, Henry closed his eyes again, a look of pure contentment on his face.

She started softly but soon the melody strengthened, her notes reverberating with emotion. Every ounce of her grief flowed freely through the strings. As the final notes faded away, Harmony realized her cheeks were wet with tears.

Henry opened his eyes, smiling tenderly at her. “My wife used to play guitar,” he said. “Hearing you just now… it was like having a piece of her back again.”

He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you.”

Over the next few weeks, Henry became a regular visitor to Harmony’s performances at the park. He would always request a song, saying her music brought him joy. In turn, she found playing for him soothed her wounded heart.

One day, Harmony arrived to find Henry already seated on the bench, a guitar case at his feet.

“I have something for you,” he said after they had greeted each other. He opened the case to reveal a beautiful vintage acoustic guitar.

Harmony’s eyes went wide. “I can’t accept this,” she stammered.

“Please, I want you to have it,” Henry urged. “My wife would have wanted someone like you to put it to good use.”

Unable to form the words to politely refuse such a meaningful gift, Harmony threw her arms around Henry in a fierce embrace. He held her gently, patting her shaking shoulders.

From then on, the two played guitar together, creating a perfectly blended melody. The notes resonated in harmony, just as their friendship did. Though they came from different generations and backgrounds, Henry and Harmony shared a common love for music.

Each day, Harmony would wait eagerly on the bench for Henry’s arrival. They got to know each other better through their conversations and songs. Henry told her stories about his wife and the many years they had lovingly played music together. Harmony opened up about losing her mother so suddenly and how playing her guitar was the only way she could still feel close to her.

On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, Harmony arrived at the park earlier than usual. She pulled out her guitar and began tuning it, but her fingers fumbled clumsily over the strings. Sighing in frustration, she glanced around, anxious for Henry’s comforting presence.

After waiting nearly an hour, anxiety started building in her chest. Where was Henry? In all the weeks she had been coming here, he had never been late. What if something happened to him?

For the next several days Harmony waited in vain; Henry did not come. She could barely bring herself to play any songs as her worry mounted. By the end of the week, Harmony knew she had to find out if her friend was okay.

The nursing home was just blocks from the park. Harmony walked through the front doors and approached the reception desk timidly.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for someone, a resident here. His name is Henry.”

The receptionist smiled sadly at her. “You must be Harmony. Henry told us you might come by. I’m afraid he passed away two days ago.”

Harmony’s heart constricted sharply in her chest. She managed a quiet “Thank you” before hurrying out, tears stinging her eyes.

She went to their bench and wept quietly, clutching her guitar close. After a while, fingers trembling, Harmony began to play a mournful melody. She poured all her grief into the song, tears streaming down her face. It was her final farewell to her dear friend.

When the last notes faded, she heard clapping behind her. Turning, Harmony saw a group of people gathered, faces filled with empathy.

One woman stepped forward, wiping her eyes. “That was so moving. Your playing is a special gift.”

Harmony gave a watery smile. “Thank you.”

As the small crowd dispersed, their words stayed with her. Harmony realized Henry had been right – music had a way of healing wounded souls. While her heart ached with loss, the memory of Henry would live on through her songs.

She stood slowly, tucking away her guitar, and looked up at the sky. The clouds drifted by just as they had when she would sit here happily with Henry.

“I’ll keep playing,” she whispered. “Just for you.”

The breeze picked up, whistling through the trees, as if whispering a soft “thank you” in return. Comforted, Harmony turned and headed home, eager to let her music bring harmony to the world once more.

Feature Photo by Quốc Bảo