"Ugh, Dad learning to play the flute properly is slower than a butterfly crossing the ocean."

"...Dad will practice hard," the voice from the memory replied.

A voice that only existed within memories. A voice that could only be heard in the echoes of the past.

"Don’t worry, Dad. Everyone’s clumsy at something."

"You’ve grown up more than I thought, my little girl," the voice said fondly.

The exchange was a relic of the past, a conversation long since transformed into a cherished memory—one that could no longer continue.

"Still, someday you have to play this song for me, okay? …