The Vintage Harmonica in My Dad's Jacket

I found it in my dad's jacket pocket while helping him clean out the garage after the tornado warnings passed through town. A brass harmonica, tarnished but whole, with his initials scratched into the back.

"Oh, that," he said, almost embarrassed. "Played it in high school. Haven't touched it in years."

I handed it to him. His fingers remembered what his mind had half-forgotten—a little melody, rusty and tender, filled the afternoon light.

He stopped mid-note. "Your mom used to love when I played," he said quietly.

Sometimes the things we set down aren't really lost. They're just sleeping, waiting for the moment when holding them again makes sense. When the house is still standing and someone who loves us is listening.

What's something you set aside that might be ready to come back?