Daddy Dearest

Chapter Seventy

Melody

The sun was setting, splashing a watercolor palette of oranges, pinks, and purples across the hospital room window when I arrived at Uncle Ben's room. He was there, ensconced in a bed too small for his tall frame, his eyes lost in the ghost of a memory. I cleared my throat, and he startled, eyes focusing in on me with a sheepish smile.

I had promised Aunt Waverly, who was suffering from emotional and mental fatigue that I was going to look after her husband, so she could get a break. I spent all of my time at the hospital like it was my second home, anyway.

"Melody," he greeted, the recognition in his eyes bringing a tug of relief to my heart. His memory was a fickle friend these days.

"Hey, Uncle Ben," I greeted, settling down on the chair next to his bed. His room smelled of sterile linen and something undefinable – the scent of old books, maybe, tinged with a dash of hope. I picked up his worn-out copy of 'Soul Mountain', its pages dog-eared, annotations scribbled in Uncle Ben's elegant handwriting marring the margins. It was a relic of a past he was struggling to recall.

"Thought we could go over this?" I suggested, brandishing the book. His gaze held a curious spark. He nodded, a slow, ponderous motion, and I opened to the first chapter.

We waded through the prose, Uncle Ben's forehead creased in concentration as he grappled with the words that once held so much meaning to him. We dwelt on the themes of self-discovery and isolation, their pertinence striking a disconcerting chord in both our hearts. Uncle Ben was an echo of the protagonist, meandering through his forgotten past in search of an identity that had slipped through his grasp.

"I remember this," he murmured at one point, tracing his fingers over a marked passage. "The exploration of identity and...and...". His voice trailed off, the veil of oblivion descending once more.

"It's okay, Uncle Ben," I assured him, the weight of his plight tugging at my heartstrings.

His gaze traveled out of the window, where the stars had begun to peek through the darkening canvas of the sky.

"Do you know the story of the Man in the Moon?" I asked him, my voice soft. His attention snapped back to me, the constellations reflecting in his clear eyes. He shook his head, and I launched into the tale that Nancy used to recite, her voice a soothing lullaby as the moonlight streamed through my bedroom window.

A hush descended upon the room as the story wove its magic. Uncle Ben watched me, his eyes wide and entranced, as I narrated the tale of the lovesick knight banished to the moon. There was a sense of intimacy in that moment, our shared solitude creating a tether in the emptiness that had consumed our lives.

"That's a beautiful story," Uncle Ben murmured when I had finished, the silence threatening to swallow his words. His gaze had softened, a wistful longing coloring his features.

"Yes, it is," I agreed, missing Nancy all the more. "It's a reminder that even in exile, we can still bring joy to others. We can still mean something to the world."

His hand found mine, the warmth of his fingers sending a jolt of surprise up my arm. He offered me a small smile, gratitude shimmering in his eyes. Our friendship was unlikely, but it was also comforting, a beacon of hope amid the chaos of our lives.

"Thank you, Melody," he said, his voice raw and sincere. It felt as though we were in our own world, a microcosm existing within the cold, sterile confines of the hospital. A place where forgotten memories and unspoken words found solace. A place where all things faded, and yet, not everything disappeared.

***

I gave Uncle Ben's hand a reassuring squeeze, offering a comforting smile. "We'll get through this, Uncle Ben."