The House of Forgotten Songs

The house had stood at the edge of the woods for as long as anyone could remember, its windows clouded and its walls weathered by time. It had always been a place of mystery, its presence whispered about but rarely approached. They said it was empty, but when Anna stepped inside, the air felt alive—like it was holding its breath, waiting for her.

She had come because of the music.

It started two nights after her mother passed, when the ache of loss was still raw and unrelenting. A soft melody, faint and fragile, had threaded through her dreams, piercing the numbness she carried like a shield. It wasn’t a song she knew, but it felt like something she’d heard long ago, as if it had been sung to her before she knew how to listen.

The house was quiet now, save for the groan of floorboards beneath her hesitant steps. Dust motes floated in the golden light filtering through cracked windows, and the air smelled of cedar and time, of lives long lived and left behind. The walls, once adorned with patterned wallpaper, were now streaked with the decay of years. Yet, even in its decay, the house felt warm—familiar, almost.

Her fingers brushed the faded wallpaper, its peeling edges curling like pages of a forgotten book. As her steps carried her deeper, she felt it: a pull, soft yet insistent, guiding her like a thread woven through her soul.

In the corner of the parlor stood a piano.

It was unremarkable at first glance, its wood dulled and its keys yellowed, but there was something about it that demanded her attention. The surface bore scratches that told stories of restless fingers, of lives that had poured their joy and sorrow into it. It seemed to hum faintly, as though it recognized her, as though it had been waiting.

Anna’s breath hitched. Her mother had loved the piano. She used to play for hours, her hands gliding across the keys with a grace Anna had never inherited. “Music isn’t just notes,” her mother always said. “It’s where we leave the pieces of ourselves for others to find.”

She stepped closer, her hand trembling as she reached for the keys. When she pressed the first one, the sound wasn’t just a note—it was a memory.

The world shifted, and Anna was no longer in the quiet, dusty house. She was back in her childhood living room, the warm glow of sunlight streaming through the curtains. Her mother sat at a piano identical to this one, her laughter ringing out as Anna spun clumsily in a dress far too big for her. The melody filled the room, a joyful cascade of notes that wrapped around them both, making the moment feel infinite.

The memory dissolved as the note faded, leaving Anna breathless. She pressed another key, and the house responded, pulling her into another moment.

She was at the kitchen table now, her hands sticky with flour, as her mother guided her fingers through the motions of making pie crust. In the background, the same melody played, softer this time, as rain tapped against the windows in a gentle rhythm. The memory smelled of cinnamon and sounded like laughter, and it tasted of safety.

Tears welled in Anna’s eyes as she played another note.

This one carried a different weight, heavier and darker. The room shifted, and her mother was at the piano again, but this time, her head was bowed, her shoulders trembling. Tears slipped silently onto the keys, blending into the fractured melody that filled the room. It was a song of goodbyes, of pain too great for words. Anna felt the sharp edge of that grief, a grief her mother had hidden so well, and her own tears spilled over, mingling with the ghost of her mother’s sorrow.

She wanted to stop, but the piano seemed to pull her forward, each note unraveling another thread of her mother’s life. The room around her transformed into a mosaic of moments, a tapestry of joy, pain, love, and loss.

And then came the final note, unbidden but inevitable.

The house around her fell silent, holding her in a moment that was not hers, but felt as though it had been waiting for her. Her mother was younger now, her hair loose and her face unlined by time. She sat at the piano in this very house, her fingers dancing over the keys as she sang softly to a child swaddled in her arms.

Anna’s breath caught in her throat as she realized the truth. The child was her.

“You are my song,” her mother whispered, her voice filled with a love so profound it ached. “Even when I’m gone, I’ll always be with you, in the music.”

The memory dissolved, and Anna found herself kneeling before the piano, her hands trembling as she clung to its edges. Her tears fell freely, but they weren’t just tears of sorrow. They were tears of connection, of gratitude, of a love that defied time and space.

When Anna finally rose, the evening light spilled through the windows, painting the room in hues of gold and amber. The music had stopped, but it lingered in her chest, a quiet hum that felt like her mother’s embrace.

As she stepped out of the house and into the waiting arms of the forest, Anna began to hum the melody, her voice carrying it forward. The song wasn’t just a memory—it was her mother’s gift, a piece of her soul left behind for Anna to carry.

And she would. Always.