Lily clutched her sheet music so tightly that the pages crinkled. Twenty other students sat in the auditorium, all waiting for their turn to sing for the spring musical. Mrs. Chen, the drama teacher, called each name from her clipboard.
"Lily Martinez."
Lily's legs felt like jelly as she walked to the stage. The bright lights made it impossible to see the faces in the audience, which was somehow both better and worse. She opened her mouth to sing, but no sound came out. She tried again. This time, a thin, wavering note emerged.
Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice from the seats: "You've got this, Lily! Just like at home!" It was her older brother, Carlos. Lily hadn't known he'd come.
Something shifted inside her. She closed her eyes, pretended she was in her bedroom, and began again. This time, her voice soared clear and strong, filling every corner of the auditorium. When she finished, there was a moment of silence - then applause erupted from the other students.
Mrs. Chen smiled and made a note on her clipboard.
Grandma Rosa sat at the kitchen table, her reading glasses perched on her nose. In her weathered hands, she held an envelope with a foreign stamp. She turned it over several times before finally sliding her finger under the seal.
As she read, her eyes grew wider. Then they filled with tears. She pressed one hand to her heart and whispered something in Spanish that Miguel couldn't understand.
"Grandma? What's wrong?" Miguel asked, worried.
But Grandma Rosa wasn't sad. She was laughing now, even as tears streamed down her cheeks. "My sister," she said, her voice cracking. "My sister in Cuba. After forty years... she's coming to visit. I'll see Maria again."
Miguel had never seen his grandmother cry like this - happy tears mixed with years of missing someone. She stood up, walked to the old photograph on the wall showing two young girls with identical smiles, and touched the glass gently.
"Forty years," she repeated. "But some bonds can never be broken."
Mr. Thompson's garden was the pride of Maple Street. Every spring, neighbors would slow down as they passed, admiring the riot of colors - tulips, daffodils, roses that climbed the white fence. Children knew better than to chase their balls into his yard; he protected those flowers like treasure.
But this year was different. The fence had a broken board. Weeds poked through where marigolds should have been. The rosebushes, usually trimmed with mathematical precision, had grown wild and tangled.
Mrs. Chen, the neighbor, knocked on his door with a casserole dish. No answer. She left it on the porch and noticed the newspapers piling up.
A week later, young Marcus from next door appeared at Mr. Thompson's door with gardening gloves. "I thought maybe you could use some help," he said. "My mom said you've been... you know... having a hard time."
Mr. Thompson stood in the doorway, looking older than Marcus had ever seen him. He was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded and stepped aside to let Marcus in.