Your best friend, on the morning of her chemo appointment.

Every Monday, for as long as treatment lasts. You schedule them once. She receives them faithfully — quiet, steady, there.

Your sister, who you haven't spoken to in two years.

You're not ready to call. You send a Heartsong. The bridge doesn't have to be rebuilt today.

Your friend going through a divorce.

She's stopped telling people. You send one to her — the words you didn't have, written for her moment.

Your mother, on the anniversary of losing your father.

She doesn't talk about it. You schedule a Heartsong to arrive that morning. She knows someone remembered.