Two weeks before she chased her dream job up the coast, the latest in a line of boys who could’ve loved her gave the girl the best gift she’d ever received. Seven months later, the job had brought her farther again from the certainty of home. The boy and his possibilities were laying their foundations in the past and all she could carry with her was the record.

A simple thing - unplayable at the moment (the turntable wouldn’t fit in her carry-on) - but the song it contained had called her home far longer than she could remember.

It was a voice you’ve heard a thousand times singing a different tune. But the lyrics that pulled at the chords of her memory on any given day won’t be found on the radio.

They belonged to her.

Given by a father to his days-old daughter. Borrowed back by a son as he resigned his father’s face to his too-bare heart and his baseball cap to his daughter’s nightstand.

It held resignation and patience and love that’s better sung than seen.

And as the record leaned against a new nightstand, she knew it held hope too.