The house was quiet, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only comes when memory fills more space than sound. The old plaid couch sat where it always had, worn from years of laughter, late-night stories, and songs that never needed an audience. But today, the room felt different. There were no chords echoing through the walls, no low baritone teasing the melody from across the room. Just sunlight pouring in through the window, and Don Reid standing alone—guitar in hand, heart heavy.

He moved slowly, reverently, the way one walks through a room that used to be shared. There was no one else there, but he wasn’t alone. Not really. On the wall above the mantle, framed in soft light, hung a photo of his brother—Harold Reid, smiling, larger than life, captured in mid-laugh as if still waiting for the next harmony to fall into place. Don didn’t speak right away. He just stared at the picture, as if willing the silence to give way to the voice he missed more than words could say.

Then, without ceremony, Don sat down at the edge of the couch—the same spot Harold used to take, always with a story, always with a joke. Slowly, gently, he laid his guitar down across the cushion between them. He didn’t cradle it. He didn’t tune it. He just let it rest. The wood touched fabric, and time stood still.

He looked up at the photo again, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

“If you can hear me, Harold… sing the harmony when I…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. Because in that moment, everything was understood. The years. The music. The brotherhood. The grief that doesn’t fade—it only softens, like the final note of a gospel song hanging in the air long after the last chord is played.

There was no applause. No closing curtain. Just Don Reid, the memory of a couch once shared, and the sound of silence that meant everything.

The stage is quiet now.

But the harmony?

It’s just waiting to begin again.

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