When I was ten, my dad died suddenly. The last thing he gave me was a singing teddy bear — one that played a soft tune when you pressed its paw. I clutched it through his funeral, the melody looping like a heartbeat I couldn’t let go of. Over time, the bear became more than a toy — it was a piece of him. Two decades later, when my son turned seven, I decided to pass it down — a bridge between the grandfather he’d never meet and the boy who carried his smile.
But when we pressed its paw, nothing happened. The batteries were dead. As I went to replace them, I noticed something odd — a small cassette hidden beside the battery box, wrapped in yellowed tape. I found an old recorder in the attic and pressed play. Then I heard his voice. My dad’s — warm, steady, unmistakable.....