The room was quiet, except for the soft hum of an old turntable in the corner. Anni-Frid Lyngstad stood by the window, hands wrapped around a mug that had gone cold, her eyes fixed on the grey winter light outside. It had been years since she’d sung this way — no stage, no spotlight, just her and the memory of a friend lying in a hospital bed miles away.

The record spun on, its gentle crackle filling the spaces between her thoughts. Somewhere in the distance, a snowplow scraped the street, but inside, time felt suspended. Anni-Frid’s lips moved almost imperceptibly, shaping the words she knew by heart, each note weighted with the ache of years gone by.

She wasn’t singing for an audience now. She was singing for him.

The melody — one they had shared in younger days, when laughter came easier and the future felt endless — seemed to warm the room in ways the mug in her hands could not. She closed her eyes, and for a fleeting moment, she could see him again: vibrant, laughing, his voice blending with hers in perfect harmony.

The phone on the table remained silent, though she half-expected it to ring with news she dreaded. Instead, the only sound was the song, carrying her back to the beginning, even as life pulled her toward the inevitable end.

When the track faded, she stood still, unwilling to lift the needle just yet. Outside, the winter light dimmed further, and she whispered into the quiet, “This one’s for you.”

Somewhere, she hoped, he could hear it.

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