The salty spray stung Ada's eyes, blurring the familiar coastline as the boat drew closer. Twenty years, it had been twenty long years since she'd last set foot on the pebbled shores of Akwama. Back then, a scrawny teenager with a duffel bag full of dreams, she'd boarded a smaller canoe, leaving behind the sleepy fishing town and her fisherman father, for the glittering promise of the city.
Now, at 38, she was returning, not with dreams in her eyes, but with a heart heavy with loss. News of her father's passing had jolted her from the fast-paced life she'd built in the city. A successful architect, a swanky apartment, a whirlwind social life – it all felt hollow now. All she could think about was the small, white house with the peeling blue trim, the constant scent of salt in the air, and the tinkling melody that danced on the wind.
As she walked up the familiar path, the house seemed smaller than her memories. The paint was more chipped, the porch swing creaked a little more mournfully. But the wind chimes, a gift from her mother, still hung by the window, their gentle song a balm to her soul. Tentatively, she pushed open the front door.
The silence was deafening. It was a different kind of silence than the city's, devoid of honking cars and distant sirens. It was heavy with the absence of her parents. Her father's worn armchair sat empty by the window, where he'd spend his evenings mending nets, a transistor radio playing a constant stream of sea shanties. The kitchen, once bustling with her mother's laughter as she whipped up fresh seafood dishes, felt cold and sterile.
A wave of nostalgia washed over her. She trotted through the dark corridor and entered her old room. Everything was exactly as she left it, just with a heap of dust: the faded posters of old folklore music icons on the walls, the overflowing bookshelf with well-worn novels, the chipped porcelain music box on the dresser. Tentatively, she wound it up. The familiar tinkling melody, a lullaby her mother used to sing, filled the room. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Memories flooded back, vivid and poignant. The countless nights curled up on the bed with her mother, listening to stories of her own childhood spent by the sea. Her father's booming laughter echoing through the house as he taught her to tie fishing knots. The family singalongs during morning devotions, her mother's voice, though slightly off-key, filled with so much love it resonated deeper than any perfect pitch.
The house wasn't just a structure; it was a symphony of memories composed by her parents. The creaking floorboards were the rhythm section, the salty breeze whispering through the windows, the melody. And her parents, the conductors, weaving tales and laughter into the very fabric of the home.
Ada spent the next few days cleaning the house, a cathartic ritual of sorting through the past. She found old photo albums, each picture a snapshot into a different chapter of their lives. Her eyes lingered on one – her teenage graduation, beaming awkwardly in her cap and gown, flanked by her parents, their faces etched with pride. A lump formed in her throat.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Ada stood on the porch, the wind chimes serenading her. A pang of regret hit her. She'd gotten so caught up in chasing her dreams, she'd ignored the melody of home, the symphony her parents orchestrated.
Suddenly, an idea sparked in her mind. She picked up her phone and dialed a number – her old church choir master. He was surprised to hear from her, but readily agreed to give her a few lessons. She started practicing the melodies that resonated within her - the sea shanties, the lullabies, the folk songs she grew up hearing. The house, once filled with a heavy silence, now echoed with music, tentative at first, then gaining confidence with each passing day.
After a few days, she decided to renovate the house, and decided to stay. She continued working on her architectural projects remotely, taking breaks to gaze at the ocean or tinker with her dad's old boat. In the evenings, she listened to old folk songs, the music a tribute to her parents, a way to keep their memory alive.
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