Page 100 of Unlocking Melodies

Just another Tuesday in Oakwood Grove, really.

Chapter 26

Remember

Consciousness returned in fragments, like tuning an old radio. First static, then bits of sound - dripping water, creaking wood, my own ragged breathing. The back of my head throbbed where they'd hit me, each pulse a reminder that I was still alive. Still fighting.

Ethan's face flashed through my mind. The thought of him searching for me, probably terrorizing half of New York's corporate world in the process, made my chest ache. I couldn't give up. Not when he'd just found me again.

My eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light. Beside me, my father slumped against his restraints, blood matting his silver hair. The sight should have filled me with anger - this man who'd sold me out, who'd spent years running from his responsibilities. Instead, something complicated and painful twisted in my chest. He looked older like this, smaller. Broken.

I flexed my wrists experimentally, wincing at the bite of rope against raw skin. The knots were tight but not impossible - whoever tied them knew what they were doing, but they hadn't counted on a small-town bartender's stubborn streak.Nina would be proud of my determination, if she wasn't already plotting creative revenge against everyone involved.

My wrists were on fire. Funny how you never appreciate basic things like circulation until rope starts cutting it off. The barn's musty air felt thick in my lungs as I worked my fingers against the bindings for what had to be the thousandth time. Beside me, my father's head lolled forward at an angle that made my stomach clench.

“Hey,” I whispered, nudging him with my shoulder. “I know you're generally a fan of dramatic exits, but now's not the time for a nap.”

His eyelids fluttered, blood matting his silver hair to his forehead. The sight made something twist in my chest - a feeling I didn't want to examine too closely. He looked older like this, smaller somehow. Hard to believe this broken man was the same one who used to swing me onto his shoulders at Central Park.

“Jimmy...” His voice came out like sandpaper. “I'm so sorry, kid. Never meant... this wasn't supposed to...”

“To what?” The bitter laugh escaped before I could stop it. “To get caught? To have your latest scheme blow up in our faces? Or just to use your own son as collateral?”

He flinched like I'd hit him, which was impressive considering he was barely conscious. “You don't understand. I was trying to protect you.”

“Protect me?” The words tasted like copper in my mouth. “That's rich coming from someone who spent my college fund at the track. Though I guess selling me out to wannabe mobsters is a step up from your usual disappearing act.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across his bruised face. A face I used to search for in every crowd, at every school event, hoping maybe this time he'd show up. This time he'd stay.

“Your mother...” he coughed, red staining his lips. “She'd be so disappointed in what I've become.”

“Don't.” My voice cracked embarrassingly. “Don't you dare bring her into this.”

“She used to call you Little Star,” he whispered, his eyes glazing slightly. “Remember? Every night before bed, she'd say 'Goodnight my Little Star, keep shining bright.'”

The nickname hit like a thunderbolt, electricity racing through my veins. The world tilted sideways as memories crashed through the walls in my mind - not in fragments this time, but in a tsunami of sound and color and feeling.

Mom's voice, clear as crystal: “My Little Star, always making music wherever you go.” Her hands guiding mine on piano keys, teaching me scales between kisses to my forehead. The scent of her perfume - vanilla and jasmine - mixing with coffee on Sunday mornings while she danced around our tiny kitchen.

“The blue pancakes,” I whispered, the memory so vivid it hurt. “She put food coloring in everything that summer. Said normal breakfast was an insult to creativity.”

“God, those pancakes.” His dad’s laugh turned into a wet cough. “Remember how she made them into music notes? Said breakfast should be symphonic.”

More memories cascaded through - but not just of her now. Rosewood Academy's practice rooms at midnight, Ethan's shoulder warm against mine as we composed together. His smile in the dim light, the way his fingers danced across piano keys, how he tasted like expensive coffee the first time we kissed.

“I remember,” I managed, my voice cracking. “Everything. Ethan. The showcase. When you left...”

The memories kept coming, relentless now. Meeting Liam in that dive bar in the East Village, both of us too drunk and too ambitious, making plans on cocktail napkins. Finding Oakwood Grove home. Nina's fierce protectiveness, Mrs. Henderson'sopera glasses, Martha the Attack Chicken's vendetta against expensive footwear.

“Stop,” I pleaded, but I wasn't sure if I was talking to my father or my own mind anymore. The memories hurt like fresh wounds - every triumph, every heartbreak, every moment that had made me who I was.

“I kept everything,” Gary's words slurred at the edges. “Every drawing. Every school photo. The program from your first recital - you played Chopstick Blues, remember? Made it swing even though your teacher hated jazz.”

I saw myself at that recital, tiny legs barely reaching the pedals, mom filming while dad cheered too loud. Then later - Ethan watching from the back of Rosewood's auditorium, his eyes shining with something that looked like forever. The moment everything changed, when dreams and reality collided in Practice Room C.

“The night you left for college,” his dad continued, each word seeming to cost him. “You looked so much like her. Same determination. Same light inside.”

Another memory surfaced - packing my car while Gary watched from the porch, neither of us knowing how to say goodbye. How different would things have been if he'd stayed? If he hadn't let grief and addiction tear us apart?

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