Page 49 of Unlocking Melodies

“Is concerned about your extended absence, yes. But as your father rather than CEO?” He turned to me, his corporate mask completely gone. “I think you're exactly where you need to be.”

The acceptance in his voice floored me. Eight years of assumptions crumbled as he added, with a hint of amusement, “Though you might want to tell Sheriff Jake and Officer Dawn they can stop tailing my car. Small town surveillance isn't quite as subtle as they think.”

Right on cue, Jake's patrol car rolled past at what had to be the slowest legal speed possible.

My father reached into his car and pulled out a folder. “You should see these.”

Inside were detailed business plans in Jimmy's familiar handwriting – proposals for preserving independent music venues, protecting small towns from aggressive development, creating sustainable arts communities. Each page showed a vision I'd never imagined, a fight I hadn't known he was fighting.

“He was building something remarkable,” Harrison said quietly. “While you were creating tech empires, he was creating communities.” He watched Jimmy through The Watering Hole's window, where he was now helping Nina sort through vinyl records. “Maybe instead of protecting him from our world, you should have let him show you his.”

The words settled like weights in my chest. Every page in the folder showed a Jimmy I'd never fully understood – someone who fought for small town souls while I fought for market share.

“You didn't leave to protect him from me, son.” My father's parting shot landed with surgical precision. “You left to protect yourself from changing.”

I watched his car pull away, the familiar Bentley looking strangely at home on Oakwood Grove's main street. Through the window, Jimmy was laughing at something Nina had said, his smile real and unguarded in a way that made my chest ache.

All this time, I'd cast my father as the villain in our story. The corporate titan threatening Jimmy's world, the force I had to protect him from. But standing there with Jimmy's vision in my hands, watching him build something beautiful even without his memories, I realized the truth:

The real villain had been my own fear. Fear of choosing a different path, of letting go of the carefully constructed future I'dhidden behind. Fear of becoming something other than what I thought I had to be.

My phone buzzed – probably Mia with more crisis updates. But for once, the corporate emergencies felt distant. Instead of checking it, I found myself walking into The Watering Hole, Jimmy's folder heavy in my hands.

“Everything okay?” Nina asked as I settled at the bar. “Your father seemed... different than expected.”

I watched Jimmy sort through vinyl records, his hands moving with the same confidence they found on piano keys – muscle memory leading him home even when his mind couldn't remember the way.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “I think maybe everything's exactly how it needs to be.”

Chapter 12

Bench Marks

Spring in Oakwood Grove was apparently a big deal. The whole town had burst into technicolor like someone had cranked up nature's saturation settings, and everyone seemed determined to spend as much time as possible admiring it. Even the ducks at the park pond looked smugly pleased with themselves, like they'd personally arranged the perfect weather.

I'd escaped to the park with my laptop and a growing identity crisis, courtesy of my email's drafts folder. Past Jimmy had been busy, it seems – the documents I'd found outlined plans so ambitious they made Current Jimmy feel like an underachiever. A network of independent music venues. Preservation initiatives. Community arts programs that could reshape small-town culture.

“Who were you?” I muttered to my screen, scanning proposals that read like they'd been written by someone who actually knew what they were doing. The confidence in every line made me wonder if amnesia had taken more than just memories – maybe it had stolen some essential part of who I used to be.

The duck pond seemed like a good place for an existential crisis. Private, quiet, with just enough ambient quacking to keep me from spiraling too deep into self-doubt. At least, that was the plan until I realized I wasn't alone.

On a nearby bench sat the last person I expected to see in a public park just before lunch on a Tuesday. His designer suit looked bizarrely out of place among the ducks, jacket discarded beside him like even expensive Italian wool had given up on maintaining appearances. He was frowning at a leather folder with the kind of intensity usually reserved for defusing bombs.

My first instinct was to retreat. Our interactions lately had been... complicated. Between piano performances and his father's surprise visit (which was still the talk of Mrs. Henderson's various social circles), there was enough unresolved tension between us to power a small city.

But curiosity won out over common sense. Before my brain could talk me out of it, I heard myself say, “This bench taken?”

He startled so badly he almost dropped his folder, papers scattering like startled ducks. “I was just, uh... reviewing quarterly projections.”

“At the duck pond?” I moved to help him gather the scattered papers. “Is this some new corporate meditation technique? Hostile takeovers are more effective with waterfowl witnesses?”

“The inn's WiFi is down,” he muttered, somehow managing to look both dignified and completely flustered. “Something about Mrs. Henderson's bridge club overwhelming the network again.”

“Ah yes, the infamous Thursday tournament. I hear their online Scrabble games can crash systems three towns over.”

A duck waddled over to investigate the commotion, eyeing his probably-worth-more-than-my-car shoes with worrying interest. “What are you actually reading?” I asked, watching himtry to subtly move his feet out of beak range. “Must be riveting if it's got you hiding out here with the local wildlife.”

“Just... stock reports. Market analyses. Very boring corporate things.” He shuffled the papers with suspicious haste.

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