The sky is grey and the air is cold. A diverse array of red and brown leaves crunch loudly underfoot, but it does not mask the sound we follow. The sound, yes, that noise. It belongs to an instrument, one overly familiar. It plays a song so known that it could be hummed in harmony by any frequent passerby-er. For, in fact, the song is played most everyday by a man in a park.

It is very simple for us to find the man. He is old and weathered, with crooked fingers and a fuzz of thin, white hair. He favors the same seat in the same bench for every visit. He never fails to play his harmonica either.

His harmonica was once the deep brown of polished wood and bright metal engraved with a cursive insignia. Now it is dented and scratched, chipped and worn, but the metal shines like new and the wood always keeps a shiny polish. The old man uses his crooked fingers to hold the instrument close. Each time it brings memories to life in his mind. Memories of his past. We can see them.

We watch the old man change before our very eyes.

Wrinkles even out, color returns to his skin, and the hunch of long life evens into the straight spine of a gentleman. In his old home, at dinners and dates, the harmonica in hand and his loved ones dancing around. Friends long gone would join in the merriment with the crows of songs and the thumps of makeshift drums. The young, aged man smiles fondly and the memories fade to the lonely present. Still, the man smiles. He takes the cold instrument and warms it with a song.

There's the lovely music. It is his gift. Throughout his life, he understood sounds and how they worked. He wove them so beautifully together then and he still does. It's what attracts people. It's what attracts us. Soon there's a small crowd. The path that leads to the bench begins to see movement as more and more people walk through, watching and listening to the old man as they go. He is what called them, but they do not know. His soul that burns so brightly is what attracts people.

A woman steps from the crowd. She, with pale skin and red locks, walks ever so slowly to the man. She carries with her a simple, small box and a singe pink flower. She takes the seat next to him, but the man pays her no notice. She smiles at him. Its a sad smile. It's one that fills her brown eyes with tears and causes a lump in her throat. The old man suddenly stops his song and looks up. He too smiles. It's one that lessens autumn's chill and warms the heart. Brown eyes crinkle.

The woman follows his eyes to the crowd where a small girl breaks appears to return her grandfather's smile. Red hair bounces as the child jumps in his arms, her pale face flushed in the cold. It's easy for us to see the joy written on both their faces. The girl giggles and the man laughs, and together they gather their things and walk down the path with hands intertwined. Now that same little girl sits on the old brown bench by her lonesome, watching her memories play out like a performance before her. Our eyes take in her tears as they trek down her cheek while the ghosts of her memories blow away like her grandfather's ashes in the wind.

For that old, harmonica playing man has left the world, leaving only memories and the faint chorus of his song in the breeze.

We miss him.

The woman wipes away her tears and sets the flower on his seat. We watch as she gazes at the flower for one minute and then another before pulling an instrument from the box in her hand. It's a harmonica. It's new, polished, and has yet to start the journey of life. While the woman hold the metal in her smooth hands she thinks of the man who bought it for her so long ago. When she brings it to her lips she imagines his smile, his laughter, and his music. As she plays his song, she remembers him.

We miss you.