Page 41 of Unlocking Melodies

The fragment disappeared as quickly as it came, but others followed. The rich smell of expensive coffee, so different from The Daily Grind's practical brew. Laughter bouncing off high ceilings, echoing in a space that felt both foreign and familiar. The solid presence of someone else on a piano bench, our shoulders touching as we played.

None of it made sense – just sensations, feelings, moments without context. Like trying to read a story with half the pages missing. But each fragment seemed to pull me toward the cornerof the bar where Ethan sat, his green eyes fixed on the piano with an intensity that should have been unnerving but somehow wasn't.

My hands found a melody I hadn't known I was looking for, something that felt important, unfinished. Like a conversation interrupted mid-sentence. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ethan lean forward slightly, his usual perfect posture forgotten. The movement triggered another flash – the same reaction but years ago, in a different room, when we'd first figured out this particular harmony.

Wait. We?

The thought jolted me, but my hands kept playing, apparently unbothered by my mental crisis. They knew this song, knew exactly where each note should fall, even if I didn't. Even if I couldn't remember learning it.

Without conscious thought, my hands shifted into that unfinished piece from the ranch – our piece, I realized with a jolt that somehow didn't interrupt my playing. The melody felt different here in the bar's intimate atmosphere, more raw and exposed, like reading someone's diary out loud. The notes carried all the questions I couldn't voice, all the half-memories that kept slipping through my fingers.

I risked a glance at Ethan and immediately wished I hadn't. He was gripping his glass like it was the only thing keeping him anchored, those green eyes holding something that made my chest ache.

The sight triggered another flash: that same intense expression, but younger, softer somehow. Morning light streaming through tall windows, casting shadows across a face that looked at me like I was something miraculous. The phantom feeling of someone's shoulder pressed against mine, warm and solid and real.

The memory slipped away before I could grab it again, but the emotion lingered, weaving itself into the music. My hands knew this story even if my mind didn't, translating that nameless ache into melody. Each note felt like a question I didn't know I was asking, each chord progression a conversation I couldn't quite remember having.

The burst of applause startled me so badly I nearly fell off the bench. Right. Audience. Somehow I'd forgotten about the several dozen people watching this apparently very public musical identity crisis. Nina was practically vibrating with vindicated joy, and Mrs. Henderson was doing that thing where she pretended she wasn't crying while simultaneously texting everyone in her contact list. Which, knowing her, probably included several people who didn't actually own phones.

“Honey, that was...” Nina started, then stopped, apparently running out of words, which was a minor miracle in itself.

“Just like old times!” Mrs. Henderson announced, dabbing at her eyes with what looked suspiciously like a betting slip. “Though you usually save that particular piece for more private performances...”

Nina shot her a look that could have frozen hell, which definitely went on my list of things to investigate later. If I ever finished the current list of mysteries, which seemed about as likely as Sky serving regular coffee without commentary.

Even Jake, who'd materialized at some point with his usual impeccable timing, looked impressed. “Not bad, Reed. Not bad at all.”

But it was the quiet tension radiating from Ethan's corner that captured my attention. Something significant had just happened, even if I couldn't quite grasp what. The music had unlocked something – not quite memories, but feelings that felt older than my amnesia, deeper than conscious thought.

I was immediately swarmed by the regular crowd, their enthusiasm both touching and slightly terrifying. Everyone seemed to have a story about Past Jimmy's performances, each one making Current Jimmy increasingly suspicious that I'd been some kind of small-town piano vigilante.

“Remember when you played for Sarah's proposal?”

“Oh, and that time with the flash mob!”

“What about the Christmas thing with the mechanical bull?”

I nodded and smiled through their stories, but my attention kept drifting to the corner booth. Empty now, I realized with a start. Through the window, I caught movement in the alley – Ethan pacing like a caged lion, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair with complete disregard for whatever it cost to maintain that deliberate dishevelment.

“Jimmy?” Nina's voice pulled me back to the present. “You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Maybe I had. Or maybe I was the ghost – haunting my own life, catching glimpses of a past that felt like someone else's memories. The piano hummed behind me, keys still warm from playing a story I didn't know I knew.

“I'm fine,” I lied, because what else could I say? Sorry, just watching my apparent billionaire friend have a breakdown in the alley while trying to process memory fragments that feel like scenes from a movie I can't remember watching?

But Nina, being Nina, heard everything I wasn't saying. “Sometimes,” she said quietly, “our hearts remember things our heads aren't ready for yet.”

I watched Ethan through the window, his perfect suit rumpled now, his corporate mask completely shattered. He looked more real like this, more like the boy from my fragments of memory. More like someone who might have once sat beside me at a piano at midnight, creating something that even amnesia couldn't quite erase.

“Yeah,” I managed, my hands still tingling with phantom melodies. “I'm starting to get that.”

The crowd finally thinned around midnight, leaving behind the usual debris field of empty glasses and probably several updated betting pools. I started my end-of-night routine – or at least, what I'd pieced together of it from Nina's instructions and Past Jimmy's obsessively detailed notes. The piano stood silent now, but I could still feel its presence like an unfinished conversation.

I was collecting tips from the jar (apparently Past Jimmy had quite the following – or maybe people just felt sorry for the amnesiac bartender-turned-reluctant-pianist) when I noticed it. A napkin, tucked carefully underneath, the kind of high-quality paper that definitely didn't come from our supplier. On it, in elegant handwriting that probably cost more to learn than my monthly rent.

Some endings need to be rewritten. -E

“Found his note, I see.”

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