I sink into the patterned armchair, the fabric soft and familiar beneath my fingers. My sister and her husband have done something beautiful here, created a corner in their new home that feels like a small museum of our past. The lamp casts a warm circle of light, catching the edge of the old family photographs on the wall. There they are, our parents, frozen in time, watching over us with quiet eyes.

But just above them hangs another face, one that hits me harder than the rest.

Him. The younger brother of my sister’s husband. My best friend. He’s there, captured in a moment of laughter, a glass lifted to his lips, the hint of a grin still alive in the frame. He died young, too young, in a sudden accident that still echoes in the quiet spaces of memory. Seeing him here, part of this corner, part of this house, brings a wave of warmth and ache at once. We shared so much, jokes, dreams, plans we never got to finish. And music…. Always music.

The wooden record player sits to my right, carefully placed on a rustic shelf beside a stack of vinyls. The same platine discs we all used to marvel at. I smile. I remember how my sister guarded them like treasure. I was always drawn to them, curious about how those grooves could hold symphonies and stories. She was patient, but firm. “Don’t scratch them!” she’d warn, while I’d pretend not to hear.

I reach down and gently pull out Carmen. Just the sight of the cover pulls me back, its red border, her elegant face. I place it on the turntable, lower the needle, and wait for the faint crackle before the room begins to fill with music. It’s like time folds in on itself. I’m ten again. My sister is nearby, worried about her records. My best friend is on the floor next to me, laughing, teasing, soaking up the music with the same wonder I felt.

Today, though, he’s only in the photo. And yet somehow, he’s here.