Jean heard the voice and recognized the feel of it. Odd, to think of sounds, even ones in her mind, as having a feel. But this did. A feel, a look, a sound, all combined into one. Even a hint of scent, although the scent hadn't been there the last time.
She'd been drifting through her own memories, her thoughts on her parents, when she heard the voice.
For a moment, she thought it was her father. It had a similar sound, a similar feel. It felt like the man who'd held her bike steady the first time she'd ridden it, or taken her to the father daughter dance at her high school. It sounded like him, when he'd come in the morning to wake her up to go to school, knowing she was playing possum and pretending to be asleep. And the little girl inside her wanted to play that game again even as the adult she'd become reached for the sense of familiarity.
Papa?, she murmured, turning her head in her sleep as if that would help her pinpoint the sound.