The radio is broadcasting a special performance of Vivaldi's Four Seasons, performed in a famous cathedral. The high quick notes representing diverse species of birds singing together, the flow of the fresh breeze, the bouncy upbeat spring movements are vivid. It must be the acoustics of the cathedral, its large ceiling, the hard stone walls that diffuse the sounds, the reflections and the echoes within the church that are producing such deep and voluminous sound waves, coming strong through the old radio. The enormous sound waves expand our living room space and push the standard ceiling height, higher above our heads. I close my eyes and envision the cathedral pillars around me. Wrapped in music, I even smell the incense scent of the burning candles.

He is sitting opposite me, looking down, slowly tilting his head from side to side, in tune to every stroke of the bow on the violin, as if his chin is the bow's horsehair gently caressing the violin strings. The “Spring” concerto enters the dreamy slow part. Outside our window, a soft breeze is moving the leafless branches; it is a cold, calm winter day outside. The bare branches move as if they can hear the slow pace of the music.

Each time the music ceases in-between parts, I hear the boiling pot in the kitchen next door. Bubbles crowd inside the pot on the stove and push the lid slightly up and down, spreading the spicy, earthy scent of the pumpkin blending in with cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves, caramelized onion and sweet prunes. I'll have to turn it off soon. It should cook for a while in its own heat, and the prunes should give it an extra sweetness when blended and ready.

“Did you take your pills?” I ask him.

“I think I did…yes I did.” He lifts his eyes to meet mine; it's an absent gaze, his chin is still slowly swinging from side to side, following the music's pace.

I look at the glass of water in front of him on the table. The glass is still full, with no sign of a sip, no lip marks on the rim. The rim shines clean all around, no fingerprint marks on the glass either, as if no lips or fingers had ever touched it.

“Are you sure? Your water glass is still full.”

“My water glass?” He lifts an eyebrow; his chin stops moving.

“Since when do you do such forensic investigations?” His eyes narrow, his voice rings with a nostalgic humor, one he rarely uses now. The music changes to a rapid tune.

I stand up and look at the floor underneath his chair. The Spring storm permeates through the room, the violin is now quick. I approach him. The notes are sharp, high and swift. He looks up at me, his chin starts moving, tiny movements, agile, following the quick tempo. I search around him. I feel the brisk notes instill a rapid heartbeat in us both, albeit an artificial one. I look down at his legs, and see a small, round, white pill lying on the floor carpet, another one lying in the tiny fold of his trousers.

“I think you might have dropped them.” I take two new pills out of the medicine box.

“There is something… I have been meaning to tell you.” He raises his voice as the bow strokes intensify.

“What is it? Do you have any discomfort or pain somewhere?” I sharply turn to look at him with the quickening tempo of the music.

“No, I am well…a woman….” He pauses. “A woman… calls me.” His voice is suddenly filled with an odd energy much like the energized violin notes.

“A woman?”

“Yes! She calls me every night.”

“Every night! What does she want?” My pitch rises in astonishment and matches the high notes.

“Nothing. She usually asks about my health, my day, if I am ok …” his eyes narrow and the wrinkles on his cheeks deepen as he drifts in thought, trying to remember the details.

“She is very kind… very sweet.” His voice diminishes to a whisper.

“Do you know her?” My eyes narrow in suspicion.

“She told me her name …I don't recall now… but her voice is somehow very familiar.”

“A mystery woman calling you every night, that's scandalous!” My light laugh dissolves in the lively music.

He smiles, and a bright light shine for an instant in his empty gaze, then disappears.

“We should invite her here for lunch,” he says.

“Yes, let's! I'd like to meet the mystery lady who calls you every night.” I lift an eyebrow, sounding enthusiastic, the radio music is also vibrant and bright, like a cheerful dance.

“You know she is very kind, she never complains or asks for anything, but ….”

“But what?“

“I think … I somehow think she might need help.” A thoughtful expression lingering on his tired face.

“What do you mean, she might need help?” I swiftly take a step towards him.

“Did she hint at being in some kind of trouble?”

“No…No…”

“Then what makes you think she needs help?” I almost snap, moving my hand sharply towards him. One pill falls out of my palm.

“It's a sense I have when talking to her….” he says quietly. “She sounds like she needs help.” The violin tempo is at its most intense now.

The other pill slips from my fingertips and falls on the floor between my feet. I feel my head shakes in time with the music, or maybe in denial.

“What kind of help?” I once more take a step closer towards him. His gaze is still down, thoughtful, looking at the floor.

“Her voice is familiar… very familiar, in fact… but it is not a happy voice, she sounds ….” He pauses for a second.

“She sounds sad… lost ….”

The sound of the violin halts. Melodious “Spring” is gone, and silence fills our space.

I slump heavily on the chair in front of him. The air is suddenly sucked out of the room. I stare at him. His steady gaze is empty again, devoid of all light. I watch the thinning grey hair on his receding hairline, his broad forehead shines under the ceiling light.

A short period of time passes quietly with only our breathing rhythmically filling the space, accompanying the slow movement of the bow on the strings, signaling the start of “Summer” Concerto. Then there's the sound of the front door opening and footsteps approaching, echoing on the wooden floor of the hallway.

I lift myself up from the chair. The “Summer” concerto enters its warm, vivid crescendo.

Mr. B walks in from the cold outdoors and unwraps the long muffler from around his neck.

“Hello ma'am! So nice and warm in here! It's really chilly outside,” he says while rubbing his hands together. “Hello sir! What lively music you are listening to.” Mr B bends down to meet his eyes with a large smile.

I stand up to greet and accompany him to the kitchen. He drops his bag on the kitchen table, I turn off the gas under the pot on the stove and lift the lid to give it a good stir.

“Pumpkin soup? Very seasonal, smells heavenly!” Mr. B smiles in his usual enthusiastic manner.

“Yes, and dinner is ready, you just have to blend it. You know he likes his soup extra hot, so please warm it well before serving. Also, his tooth aches a little, please don't toast his bread, it hardens.”

“Sure, ma'am”. He drops his coat on the chair.

“Oh, and he has not taken his last two pills of the day.”

“I'll give him, ma'am, don't worry.”

“And one more thing. He was complaining about cold, so I've adjusted the thermostat, and have put an extra blanket on his bed. Please make sure you cover him well before he sleeps. I know the room might get too hot for you as a result, so I have put a fan near your bed. If it gets too hot at night, just switch it on. And I am sorry about any discomfort.”

“I understand. Thank you, ma'am.”

I return to the living room and take my coat and bag. I stand next to his chair and put my hand on his arm, gently caressing. He is still looking down, the “Summer” concerto is lively and energetic.

“Mr. B is here now. I have made your favorite soup with a new recipe, I hope you like it. I cannot come tomorrow, unfortunately, but I will see you in a few days, ok?”

He is nodding; I don't know if the nod is with the music, or an acknowledgment of my words. I bend down and kiss his forehead. He murmurs something incoherent, still nodding.

The door squeaks as I open it and step inside the tiny dark space. My back aches from the three-hour train ride home. I'm now away from the calm, warm, country home of my childhood; I am in the middle of a bustling metropolis. A cold breeze greets me in the hallway as I recall that I had turned off the heating and left a window open. It is freezing inside. The sounds of a police car, an ambulance siren, and general heavy traffic seep in from the open window.

I hang my keys and coat on the hallway hook. I enter the tiny, dark living room and sink on the sofa. Vivaldi's sounds are far better that what echoes in my space. I open my phone and play the “Autumn" part of the Four Seasons. I lie on the sofa and close my eyes. The notes rise and I feel the leaves falling, I hear the crisp sound of them crackling beneath my feet. My stomach churns, and I recall the spicy sweet smell of the pumpkin soup. I envision my fridge contents in my mind, mostly empty. Some tea might do. I'll skip dinner tonight.

I keep my eyes closed for a while, listening to the “Autumn" concerto. His voice echoes in my head, much like the sound of the background violins.

“It's a familiar voice…. She sounds lost…. I think she needs help.”

In the dark, I sit up and open the laptop lying on the coffee table. I turn on the security camera app, it takes a few seconds to load. On the loaded screen I see Mr. B bending down over the bed, covering him with the extra blanket and tucking him in. I turn down the music and call his phone.

“Oh, hello, miss, how are you tonight? I am very happy to hear your voice again.” He puts on an enthusiastic tone while struggling to sit upright in bed as Mr. B hands him the phone.

“Hello! How was your day?” I stare at him though the screen and swallow something in my throat.

“I was telling someone today about you, I don't remember who, one of my family members, I think it was. We would like to invite you over for lunch whenever you have time.” His old, energetic and fun voice rings in my ears. The palm of my hand sweats.

“Did you like your soup?”

“I did indeed, it was very delicious! But how did you know I had soup tonight?”

“Mr. B said….” I swallow the lump in my throat again, this time harder.

“How was your day, miss? Is there anything I can do for you?” His sweet voice carries a nostalgic tone. It's hard to answer. I struggle to swallow the lump this time.

“Is your room warm enough tonight?” I manage to squeeze out.

“Yes, miss. It is very warm and comfortable, thank you for your concern.”

I then speak a few words to Mr. B on the phone who is getting ready for bed as well. Afterwards, I say goodbye and cut the line as I stare at my laptop, his room warm and cozy on the screen. Mr. B puts the phone aside, tucks his arms under the blanket and switches off the lights. The security camera turns to night mode, and I see his figure lying on the bed in a different light. Black and white. The concerto is now playing the last movement, “Winter”. In my cold, dark living room, I can envision the snowflakes falling heavily with quick brisk notes. I feel chilly wind on my skin, and shiver with the tremor of the solo violin. My teeth chatter with the swift tempo of the movement. I stare at the laptop screen. The rhythm quickens, notes rising higher and higher. Violin strings are plucked over and over, as if they are my nerves. I can't help my thoughts; they've broken free of their habitual constraints.

Why do I live alone, in this tiny cold flat, away from home, with an empty fridge, for an insignificant job, to watch him through the security camera, cared for by a stranger?

The music halts.

“What makes you say that?” I whisper to the screen.

The music resumes. It's the last slow “Winter” movement.

“How do you know I need help, Dad?”