Ellie hated visiting the old family house. The paint peeled, the clocks ticked too loudly, and Grandpa Henry barely remembered her name anymore. After his stroke, he’d lost most of his memory and all of his music — the violin that once sang in his hands now gathered dust by the fireplace.

But one summer afternoon, Ellie, bored and restless, picked it up. She had never played, but she dragged the bow across the strings anyway. It screeched.

Then, something strange happened.

Grandpa Henry, who had been staring blankly at the garden, turned his head.

He muttered, “Again.”

Startled, she tried again. Another horrible noise.

“Lower… E string,” he whispered.

She looked at him. He was alert. Focused. Eyes clearer than she’d seen in years.

For the next few days, she returned with the violin. Each time, he gave her fragments of advice — tiny tips buried in his fading mind. Eventually, she learned enough to play “Greensleeves,” the lullaby he used to hum.

When she played it for him one evening, he wept.

The next day, Ellie’s mom found a dusty box in the attic. Inside were tapes — old recordings of Henry playing at weddings, concerts, and one labeled “To My Daughter, for Her Children”.

They played it that night. The sound of Henry’s violin filled the house again, alive and rich. Ellie watched as her grandfather sat straighter, hands trembling, tears rolling.

That was the last time he smiled.

He passed away peacefully a few days later, violin by his side.

But Ellie never stopped playing.

And every year on his birthday, she plays "Greensleeves" on his old violin — his last song, now her first.