Page 23 of Unlocking Melodies

“I'm fine.” The words came out rougher than I meant them to. “Thank you.”

He nodded and moved on, already focusing on his next task. No lingering glance. No flash of recognition. Nothing.

My fingers found my keyboard again. I stared at the screen, memories flooding back unprompted.

Gary Reed. Jimmy's father. The man who'd disappeared after his wife's funeral, leaving twenty-two-year-old Jimmy to handle the medical bills and mounting gambling debts alone. I remembered the night Jimmy had told me about it, curled up in my lap, his voice steady but his hands shaking on the piano keys. How he'd worked three jobs that summer to keep the debt collectors away. How his father would show up occasionally, full of promises and excuses, only to vanish again with whatever cash Jimmy had managed to save.

I just knew that this had his fingerprints all over it. My fingers hovered over the keys, remembering every detail Jimmy had trusted me with during those midnight confessions. Details his current self had lost, but I would never forget.

Watching him try so hard to be the Jimmy everyone remembered while I remembered every version of him: the boy who played piano at midnight, the man who looked at me like I'd broken everything, and now this stranger wearing his face.

Jimmy fumbled a glass, catching it before it fell. The motion was pure him that. For a split second, his real smile broke through - bright and surprised and so achingly familiar.

Then it was gone, replaced by that careful mask of polite competence.

I wrote an email to Mia:

Mia - Make sure Ramirez's case gets the most aggressive prosecutor in the state. Whatever it costs.

The evening crowd picked up, filling the bar with the kind of casual energy that used to make Jimmy come alive. Now he navigated it like a puzzle to be solved, each interaction a test he had to pass.

I could fix this part, at least. Make sure no one else ever hurt him. Build walls with my influence instead of my absence. Even if he never remembered why I cared, even if that polite stranger's smile was all I ever got from him again.

Some kinds of love didn't need recognition to keep burning. They just needed to keep you warm enough to do what needed to be done.

Chapter 5

Small Town, Big Heart

I'd just figured out the coffee maker (a victory I was unreasonably proud of) when the knocking started. Not polite, getting-to-know-you-again knocking, but full-on someone's-being-chased-by-an-axe-murderer knocking.

“Jimmy Reed, I know you're in there! Don't make me use my emergency key!”

I opened the door to find a tiny woman in a floral housecoat wielding what looked like the world's largest casserole dish.

“Mrs. Henderson,” I said, proud of recognizing her from Liam's descriptions. “What a... surprise.”

“Nonsense, I always bring you tuna noodle surprise on Thursdays.” She bustled past me into the kitchen. “Though I suppose you don't remember that, poor dear. But your taste buds will! The body remembers what the mind forgets, that's what my Harold always said.”

I eyed the casserole dish warily.

“Now,” she settled at my kitchen table like she owned it, “tell me everything. How are you feeling? Are you sleeping well? Have you seen that handsome Ethan jogging this morning? Notthat I was watching, mind you, but Sarah from the diner said he runs at dawn. In very fitted athletic wear.”

My brain caught on two things: the fact that Mrs. Henderson was apparently monitoring the local jogging scene, and that strange flutter in my chest at the mention of Ethan.

“I haven't been up that early,” I managed.

“Shame. The view is quite...” she fanned herself dramatically,

Then she launched into what felt like a complete history of my involvement in town life.

“...and then there was the Christmas pageant crisis of last year, but you sorted that right out. Always know exactly what to say to people, that's your gift. Why, just last month you helped young Sloan with his proposal to Sarah - the diner Sarah, not watching-joggers Sarah...”

I nodded along, building a mental picture of what I’d been before. Apparently, I am some kind of small-town superhero who organized charity events, solved relationship crises, and had strong opinions about holiday decorations.

“And of course, everyone's wondering if you'll still handle the Harvest Festival this year, but Nina says we're not to pressure you about anything.” She patted my hand. “Though if you did want to take it on, I have some thoughts about the pumpkin contest judging criteria...”

“I should probably check on Melody,” I said quickly, before I accidentally committed to revolutionizing the local pumpkin-judging scene.

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