Mr. and Mrs. didn’t have names anymore. They used to have very pretty, appealing names and a brick house with a garden and a large family and even a cat, who also had a nice name. Sometimes, if Mr. and Mrs. thought really hard, they could remember small remnants of the lives they used to lead. The one thing they remembered the most was the sound of beautiful music. “A melody,” Mrs. would say with dreamy eyes. “A beautiful melody.” Mr. would nod and lean his head back in an attempt to dream of the music. Life was much simpler since they had been forgiven. Nearly all thoughts and memories of life below had been forgotten; all but the strongest.

It was the 700th day of Forever when it happened. As Mr. and Mrs. approached their front door on the way home from their daily stroll in the communal garden, they noticed something very strange. The door was ever so slightly ajar. “I’m sure that I closed the door behind us,” Mr. assured.

“Are you certain?” Mrs. asked. Mr. nodded as though to assure her once more.

“I’m sure that it’s nothing,” Mrs. reasoned. Mr. nodded again and pushed the door open. The door did not squeak. Nothing in Forever squeaked. In fact, everything in Forever was perfect. The grass was always freshly mown although no one ever attended to it, the weather always sunny and beautiful, and the dishes were always clean. You simply did not use a dish in Forever that you did not clean.The first thing that Mr. noticed as he pushed open their front door was that the dishes were not clean. There, sitting directly in the middle of their perfect, walnut dining table, sat a glass. The glass was partially filled with a clear substance. Almost more unheard of than dirty dishes in Forever was the waste of necessary resources.

“Did you forget to drink your water this morning?” Mr. asked, his face scrunching up in a confused manner.

“No, of course not,” Mrs. retorted. “I haven’t a clue how that got there. Would you like me to wash it?”

Mr. frowned. “Wash it? Shouldn’t we drink it first?”

Mrs. shook her head. “If I drink it, and the water belongs to you, then I have taken something of yours. If you drink it, and the water belongs to me, then you have taken something of mine.”

Had Mr. and Mrs. not been staring so deeply into the mysterious water glass, perhaps they would have heard the young girl scurry into the kitchen and take a stance directly behind them. She was a small girl, her face metaphorically marred with years of emotional abuse. Her mousy brown hair was matted and dirty. Her most outstanding feature were her eyes, which were beautiful and green despite the painful story that they told. She cleared her throat quietly. Mrs. jumped and turned on her heels. Her husband, who was a little hard of hearing was still staring intently at the water glass. Mrs. tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and locked eyes with the girl.

“Excuse me,” Mr. began. “But who are you?”

The little girl crossed her arms nervously.

“I said,” Mr. continued. “Who are you?”

Mrs. said nothing. She simply looked into the eyes of the little girl and cocked her head to the side inquisitively. The little girl, although dirty and worn, looked familiar. Sometimes, as Mrs. rested in her bed at night and waited for sleep to overcome her, she saw a beautiful pair of magnificent green eyes in her mind. These eyes lulled her to sleep on numerous occasions; they made her feel at peace. The magnificent green eyes that Mrs. often thought of were quite prominent on the face of the little girl. “I know you,” Mrs. said so quietly that it was nearly a whisper.

“What was that?” Mr. asked.

Mrs. took a step forward and reached her hand out to the girl. The girl took a step back as though she was afraid. “The w-water,” she stuttered. “It’s mine.”

Mr. scoffed and picked up the water glass. “Well, here,” he gestured. “If this belongs to you, you should drink it. Just remember to wash the dish when you’re through and then be on your way.”

The little girl shook her head back and forth. “I can’t go,” she pleaded.

Mr. frowned. “Can’t go?” He asked.

The little girl clutched her hands to her heart, tears welling in her outstanding green eyes. “Don’t you remember me?” She asked quietly.

“Remember you? How can I remember someone that I’ve only just met?” Mr. asked.

“You have to remember me! You have to! How do you not recognize me? Can’t you even remember my name? My name is-“

“Melody.”

The room fell silent. All eyes on the voice who had spoken the little girl’s name.

“Melody,” Mrs. said again.

The little girl’s frown grew into a faint smile. “I knew you’d never forget, Mom. I knew you wouldn’t.”

“Of course I wouldn’t forget you, Melody. I could never forget you. Not even after my death. Welcome, Melody.”