Page 10 of Unlocking Melodies

The laptop on the desk was password protected, but Past Jimmy had helpfully left a sticky note with “MidnightMusic2024!” scrawled on it. At least one version of me had been practical about passwords. Though the fact that I needed a note to remember my own passwords was pretty on brand for my current situation.

The emails told a story of someone who actually had their life together. Booking confirmations for venues I'd never heard of. Negotiations with agents about performance fees. Calendar reminders for meetings that had come and gone without me. I was - had been? - apparently good at this. The spreadsheets were meticulous, the contracts carefully annotated.

But it was the photos that really got me.

There were hundreds of them, neatly organized in folders by date and event. Me at various music festivals, looking completely at home amid the chaos. Me at what must have been The Watering Hole, mid-laugh at some joke I'd never remember. Me with Liam on stage, with Caleb by the stables, with Nina behind the bar.

I clicked through them mechanically until one stopped me cold. It was from some old outdoor concert - I could see the stage lights in the background, the crowd a blur of motion. I was in the center, caught mid-laugh again, but something was off about the framing. There was an empty space next to me where someone should have been. No, not empty - cropped. You couldjust see the edge of an arm around my shoulders, but the person it belonged to had been carefully edited out.

My head throbbed as I stared at it. There was something there, just out of reach. Like a word on the tip of my tongue, but instead of a word it was an entire chunk of my life.

The next folder was locked. The password prompt stared at me accusingly when I tried to open it. I tried “MidnightMusic2024!” again but no luck. Whatever was in there, Past Jimmy had wanted it hidden. From himself? From someone else?

I closed the laptop before the headache got worse. The guitar caught my eye again - a beautiful instrument, clearly well-loved. My fingers itched to touch it, but I was scared. What if I couldn't remember how to play? What if I could and it triggered something I wasn't ready to handle?

The pickle chips mocked me from the kitchen counter. I grabbed the bag because hey, apparently I liked them. The first bite was a revelation - salty, tangy, weirdly addictive. At least Past Jimmy had good taste in snacks.

The guest house transformed in the darkness, familiar-yet-strange shapes casting shadows I couldn't interpret. Every sound became a mystery - was that creak normal? Did that tap in the pipes always happen? The wind through the trees sounded like whispered conversations I couldn't quite make out.

I drifted off eventually, exhaustion winning over anxiety, but sleep brought no peace.

The dreams came in fragments, like shards of broken glass catching light:

Piano keys under my fingers, playing a melody that felt like home, but I couldn't hold onto the notes.

The rich smell of coffee, expensive and familiar, mixed with something else - cologne maybe? It made my heart race but I didn't know why.

A smile appeared in the darkness - sharp and sweet all at once, green eyes crinkling at the corners. The ache it triggered in my chest was so sudden and intense that it startled me awake.

I bolted upright, gasping, my face wet with tears I didn't remember crying. My hands fumbled for the lamp, but by the time light flooded the room, the dreams were gone. Like trying to hold water, every detail slipped through my fingers until all I was left with was the echo of feelings I couldn't explain.

The digital clock read 3:47 AM. The numbers were red, glowing like the neon sign of that bar - The Watering Hole. At least that was one thing I could remember from today. One tiny piece of information that was actually mine.

“Jimmy Reed,” I whispered to the empty room, testing the shape of it on my tongue. “I'm Jimmy Reed.”

It sounded like a lie. Or maybe a wish. The silence offered no answers.

I kept talking anyway, because the sound of my own voice was better than the creaks and whispers of this strange house.

“I'm Jimmy Reed. I live in Oakwood Grove. I manage musicians. I like pickle-flavored chips.”

Each fact felt borrowed, like I was reciting lines from someone else's script. But what else did I have?

The green eyes from my dream flashed through my mind again, gone before I could grab onto the memory. My chest ached with that same inexplicable pain. There was something there - something important - but trying to focus on it was like staring at a solar eclipse. It hurt too much to look directly at it.

I gave up on sleep around dawn. The shadows retreated, taking their mysteries with them, but that hollow feeling in my chest remained. Outside my window, the sun rose over pastures I was told I knew well, painting the sky in colors that should have meant something.

They didn't. But I watched anyway, because right then watching the sunrise felt like the only real thing I could do.

Chapter 2

Control Alt Delete

Iused to hate early mornings. Back in college, it was my enemy. Now, it was just another carefully scheduled block in my perfectly optimized life.

“Three more, Mr. Cole,” Marcus said, spotting me on the bench press. He didn't need to count the reps. I never lost count of anything anymore.

The private gym at Cole Tech Tower was state-of-the-art, though that hardly mattered. What mattered was the view. From my position on the bench, I could see my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows, superimposed over the city skyline. The effect made it look like I was holding up not just the weights, but the tower itself. Somewhere, my father probably had a metaphor about that.

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