It was a quiet, gray morning in London. The kind of morning where even the sun seemed reluctant to rise — as if it too was holding its breath.
Inside a private hospital room tucked away from the chaos of the city, Sir Tom Jones lay resting. The once-thunderous voice that had shaken stadiums and soothed hearts around the world was now reduced to faint breaths and whispered exchanges with nurses. He was recovering from a serious infection, and doctors had ordered complete silence and solitude.
But fate had other plans.
There was a gentle knock at the door. A nurse peeked in and whispered, “There’s someone here to see you. She insisted… and I think you’ll want to hear what she has to say.”
Before Tom could respond, the door creaked open.
Adele stood in the doorway, her figure framed by the soft hospital light. She wore a long black coat, her signature eyeliner subdued, and her lips pressed into a trembling smile. In her hands, she carried a small lacquered wooden box.
“Hi, Tom,” she said softly, stepping closer. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
He blinked, stunned. For a moment, it was as if the decades between them dissolved. She wasn’t there as the Grammy-winning global icon — she was just Adele, a girl from Tottenham who had grown up loving his music.
“What brings you here, love?” Tom rasped, attempting a smile.
“I couldn’t stay away,” she replied. “I’ve been thinking about you non-stop. And… I brought something. Something I think you’ll understand.”
She placed the box gently on the side table and opened it.
Inside was a piece of sheet music — aged slightly, but freshly marked. A new orchestration of Green, Green Grass of Home. But this wasn’t the same version that made Tom a household name. This was different — stripped back, tender, haunting. It had been rearranged by Adele herself.
He looked up at her, puzzled.
