Tomasz and the Broken Record

A gentle story about grief, memory and finding someone in the things they loved.

After his grandfather died, Tomasz’s family cleared out the old flat. In a cupboard under the stairs, Tomasz found a stack of dusty boxes. Inside were hundreds of vinyl records, each in a faded sleeve. He picked one up. It was a jazz album, with a trumpet on the cover.

“Your grandfather loved those,” said his father. “He played them every evening.” Tomasz looked at the turntable in the corner. It had a cracked lid, and the needle was bent. It had not worked in years. “Can we fix it?” he asked. His father shrugged. “You can try.”

He took it home, and spent weeks learning how it worked. He watched videos. He ordered a new needle and belt, and cleaned the dust from the tonearm. His fingers were clumsy at first, but he grew careful. He felt as though his grandfather was guiding him.

On a Saturday afternoon, he set the turntable on his desk, and plugged it in. He lowered the needle onto the first record. There was a crackle, then a low hum. A trumpet began to play, warm and soft. Tomasz sat down on the floor, and listened.

The music filled his room. He closed his eyes. He could almost see his grandfather in his armchair, tapping his foot. A lump rose in his throat. For the first time since the funeral, he cried. It was not a bad kind of crying. It felt like letting something go.

That evening, he showed his family. They gathered in the lounge room, and Tomasz played a record. His father’s eyes shone. His grandmother hummed along. “That was his favourite,” she whispered. They sat together, sharing stories about his grandfather’s laugh and his terrible dancing.

Tomasz began to play a record every night. He learned the names of musicians, and read the liner notes. His grandfather had scribbled messages on some of the sleeves, with the date he bought them, and where. Each note was a small window into his life.

In one sleeve, Tomasz found a folded piece of paper. “For Tomasz, when you are ready,” it said, in shaky handwriting. His heart skipped. Inside was a short note. “Music is a way to say what words cannot. Take care of this. Love, Dziadek.” Tomasz held it to his chest.

He framed the note, and hung it above the turntable. It reminded him that grief does not mean forgetting. It means carrying someone with you, in sound and story. And every evening, as the needle dropped, he felt his grandfather close.

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