Chapter 7 - The Music She Tried To Silence
“Not necessarily, sweetheart.”
Rose knelt beside Sophie and took her hand.
“Salvage means they planned to use the parts. It doesn't mean they've done it.”
Sophie looked at Daniel.
“Can we go there?”
“The workshop opens Monday morning,” he explained.
“That's two days.”
“I know.”
She looked down at her medal.
“What if we're too late?”
Luca sat beside her.
“Then we'll find another way to remember Mommy's song.”
Sophie shook her head.
“But it won't be the same box.”
He didn't argue.
Because she was right.
Sometimes replacing something isn't the same as bringing it back.
On Sunday, Rose stayed at the Moretti house.
I helped Sophie prepare her school clothes for Monday.
She was unusually quiet.
Her concert medal sat on the dresser.
The blue ribbon had become tangled around the clasp of her necklace.
“Emily?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Do you think Vanessa really hated Mommy?”
I stopped folding her sweater.
“I don't know, sweetheart.”
“But she didn't even know her.”
“That doesn't mean she had to hate her.”
Sophie sat on the bed.
“She used to get upset when I talked about Mommy.”
I joined her.
“What would she say?”
“That Daddy needed happy memories.”
I waited.
Sophie picked at the ribbon.
“Mommy was a happy memory too.”
I felt my eyes sting.
“Yes, she was.”
She looked toward the door.
“Then why didn't Vanessa like hearing about her?”
I wished I had an answer that wouldn't hurt her.
Instead, I said, “Some grown-ups have a hard time understanding feelings that aren't their own.”
Sophie thought about that.
Then nodded.
“Daddy understands now.”
“He's trying very hard.”
She looked toward her medal.
“I think he is.”
Monday morning, we went to the volunteer repair workshop connected to St. Bridget's.
Luca, Rose, Sophie, Daniel, and I walked into a bright room behind an old neighborhood community center.
Shelves held lamps, clocks, small radios, and household items waiting to be repaired.
A retired instrument technician named Walter Hale greeted us.
He was sixty-nine, with thick glasses and hands marked by years of careful work.
Daniel explained why we'd come.
Walter listened.
Then looked toward Sophie.
“Brown wooden music box? Painted flowers?”
She nodded eagerly.
“One corner's scratched.”
He smiled.
“I remember that one.”
My heart lifted.
“You have it?” Luca asked.
Walter led us to a workbench.
There, resting on a folded cloth, was a little wooden box.
Four painted flowers decorated its lid.
One corner was scratched.
Sophie stopped breathing.
“Mommy's.”
She moved closer.
Then gently touched the lid.
Rose put a hand over her mouth.
“Oh, Anna.”
Walter looked at them.
“I didn't know it belonged to someone important.”
Luca shook his head.
“It belonged to my wife.”
Walter nodded slowly.
“Then I'm glad I held on to it.”
Sophie opened the lid.
Inside was a small mirrored panel.
The mechanism sat beneath a removable wooden cover.
She tried winding it.
Nothing happened.
Her face fell.
“It doesn't play.”
Walter crouched beside her.
“Not right now.”
“Can you fix it?”
“I think so.”
He showed us the small metal spring that operated the mechanism.
It had become jammed.
The original musical cylinder was still intact.
But the winding assembly needed repair.
“I haven't taken any parts out,” he assured us.
Sophie looked relieved.
Then frightened again.
“Will it sound like Mommy's song?”
Walter smiled.
“If I can repair it properly, it'll play the same tune.”
Rose began crying quietly.
Luca placed an arm around her shoulders.
Then Walter asked how long the box had been in the family.
Rose smiled through her tears.
“I gave it to Anna when she turned fifteen.”
She looked toward Sophie.
“Your mother loved music, but she was terribly shy about playing in front of people.”
Sophie looked surprised.
“Mommy was shy?”
“Very.”
Rose laughed.
“She practiced until her fingers hurt, then told everyone she hadn't prepared.”
Luca smiled.
“That sounds like her.”
Rose continued.
“Your grandfather bought that box from a little antique shop. The tune reminded Anna of something I used to hum when she was small.”
Sophie looked at the painted flowers.
“That's the song she sang to me.”
Rose nodded.
“And now you've sung it too.”
For a moment, the three generations seemed connected by something stronger than grief.
A tune.
A scratched wooden box.
A grandmother remembering her daughter.
And an eleven-year-old girl learning that her mother had once been frightened of standing on a stage.
Walter promised to repair the mechanism carefully.
He would preserve the original cylinder and the scratched wooden case.
Sophie asked whether the corner could stay scratched.
He smiled.
“Absolutely.”
We returned to the restaurant with the box, and Walter agreed to collect it again once the replacement spring was ready.
Luca placed it in a locked cabinet beside the piano.
He let Sophie choose the key's location.
She chose his jacket pocket.
“Then you won't forget where it is,” she said.
He smiled.
“I won't.”
That afternoon, Daniel confirmed that the remaining belongings were still with Lakefront Estate Exchange.
The clothing and photographs were being prepared for return.
The jewelry box would be brought separately.
For the first time, it seemed possible that Anna's things might actually come home.
Then Vanessa arrived at the restaurant.
She wore a simple dark coat.
Her face looked tired.
Luca stepped toward her.
“What are you doing here?”
She glanced at Sophie.
“I need to return something.”
From her coat pocket, she took a small piece of folded blue velvet.
She opened it.
Inside lay a delicate silver bracelet.
A tiny moon charm hung from its clasp.
Luca went still.
“Anna's bracelet.”
Vanessa nodded.
“I took it out of the jewelry box before the movers came.”
Sophie stared at her.
“Why?”
May you like
Vanessa's eyes filled.
Then she whispered, “Because it was the one thing I couldn't make myself throw away.”
