Walter found the old radio in the attic, tucked beneath a pile of forgotten memories. Its wooden case was worn, its dials stiff with age. He dusted it off and carried it downstairs, curiosity stirring in his chest.
That night, just as the clock struck midnight, he turned the knob. Static crackled through the speakers, a whisper from the past. Then, clear as a bell, a song drifted through the room—“Moonlight Serenade.”
Walter gasped. His heart pounded.
The world around him shifted. The dim attic light faded, replaced by the warm glow of a grand USO hall. The air smelled of polished wood and sweet perfume. Couples twirled across the dance floor, their laughter mixing with the band’s smooth melody.
He looked down. His hands were young again. His legs, steady.
A familiar laugh rang out.
“You’re late,” teased Eleanor, her red dress swaying as she turned toward him. Her eyes sparkled just as they had in 1942.
Walter couldn’t speak. He pulled her into his arms instead, and they danced. Her perfume was the same, her touch just as warm.
But the song always ended too soon.
Each night, Walter returned. The music would play, and he would step back into the past, holding Eleanor close, stealing just a little more time.
Then, one evening, he noticed something. Her form flickered, just for a second.
She smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes.
“Stay,” she whispered.
Walter’s chest ached. He knew he couldn’t. He reached for the radio, hands trembling, and unplugged it.
The music stopped. The attic was silent again. Dust swirled at his feet, mixing with his tears.
At dawn, he took his granddaughter’s hands and led her to the living room.
“Let me show you something special,” he said.
As the morning light streamed through the windows, he taught her how to jitterbug, his heart lighter than it had been in years.