We knew Grandpa as a quiet man — hands calloused from farming, always humming some tune we couldn’t place.
After he passed, we found an old trunk in the attic. Inside were concert programs, black-and-white photos of him in tuxedos beside grand pianos, and letters from European music halls.
But after a breakdown, he left it all behind. Never told us.
When I asked him, years earlier, why he never played, he said, “Some music sounds better in memory.”
Now I take lessons. And sometimes, I swear I can hear him in the room.
This is one of those inspirational stories I carry in my heart — proof that even the quietest people often hold symphonies inside them.
