He guided her fragile, bone-thin hands to the strings. Helped her pluck a tune over the beeping monitors. Hummed her their lullaby. “You’ll have to teach me properly, love. Later.” She whispered the impossibility, leaning into him, comforting. The tune faltered, his voice broke, hands stilled. She smelled of forget-me-nots.

Celine Grace is a young writer obsessed with the mystery of ideas and is learning how to use marks on a page to tell them.