I was cleaning out an old drawer yesterday when I found a small, white box. Inside, nestled carefully as if waiting for me, was my late father’s hearing aid. The brand—Hansaton. Two spare batteries, still sealed. An instruction manual. And a receipt, dated 9.9.00, the amount paid: RM900.

Four months after this purchase, he was gone.

Holdings that receipt, I was transported back to the day we bought it. My dad’s cancer had advanced, and life felt fragile. My mom hesitated, then asked the salesperson, ‘My husband is… very ill. Do you think this hearing aid will still be worth it?’

I don’t remember the exact words of the reply, but I remember the essence: “Don’t think of the illness. Think of the life he can still live—today, tomorrow, for as long as he’s here. Let him hear the birds, the laughter, your voices clearly.”

At the time, RM900 was a stretch for me. Money was tight, and the future was uncertain. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Seeing the hearing aid now, I realize it wasn’t just a device—it was a few more months of my dad hearing the rustle of the newspaper he loved, the hum of life around him. At the time, I didn’t know Hansaton was a premium brand; I only knew my dad deserved to hear clearly in whatever time remained. That choice became his ability catch gospel songs in the car,  to stay connected to the world’s fading music—a small but vital victory against the quiet that illness tries to impose.

Grief has a way of hiding in drawers, waiting for us to stumble upon it. But so does love. This little box didn’t just bring back sadness—it reminded me that in his final days, we chose to give him the world, one sound at a time.

And that, no matter how much time passes, is a choice I’ll never regret.

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