Page 51 of Unlocking Melodies

His look held years I couldn't access, memories I couldn't touch. “Sometimes. Sometimes it just made everything more...”

“Complicated?”

“Real.” He watched Mr. Quackers harass a jogger with surprising tactical precision. “You had this way of making everything feel more real.”

I didn't know what to do with that – with the weight of his words or the way they seemed to resonate with something deeper than memory. So I did what apparently both Past and Current Jimmy do best: deflected with humor.

“Well, right now the only thing feeling real is Mr. Quackers' judgment about our lack of snacks. I think he's organizing a protest.”

Ethan's laugh carried echoes of other laughs I couldn't quite remember, but the sound felt right anyway. Like maybe some things didn't need memory to be true.

The moment stretched out, filled with duck splashes and distant playground squeals. Spring had brought out what seemed like half the town's children, their laughter carrying across the park like windchimes. It should have felt awkward, this silence between us, but somehow it didn't.

“At Rosewood,” Ethan said finally, his voice quiet enough that I had to lean in slightly to hear him, “you used to say that music was the only thing that made complete sense.”

The words settled somewhere in my chest, familiar even if I couldn't remember saying them.

“You still play the same way, you know.” He traced invisible patterns on the folder in his lap. “Even without remembering learning how. Some things...” His hand made a vague gesture that somehow encompassed everything we weren't directly saying. “Some things stay in your bones.”

I thought about my hands finding melodies my mind didn't know, about muscle memory that survived whatever scrambled my brain. About the way my heart did that stupid racing thing every time Ethan walked into a room, despite having no conscious memory of why it should.

Before I could examine that particular revelation too closely, chaos erupted by the pond. Mr. Quackers, apparently tired of our snackless existence, had decided to lead what could only be described as a duck uprising. His target was some poor jogger's breakfast sandwich.

“Oh god,” I muttered, watching the scene unfold. “He's actually organized a tactical strike. Look at that formation.”

“Did you teach them that?” Ethan asked, watching in fascination as Mr. Quackers coordinated what appeared to be a pincer movement. “Because this level of strategic planning seems personal.”

The absurdity of it hit us both at once. Ethan's laugh burst out unexpectedly. The sound hit something in my memory, not quite solid enough to grab but definitely there. A feeling more than an image: happiness, safety, the kind of joy that comes from sharing something genuine with someone who gets it.

The intensity of it made me grip the bench edge, wood grain pressing into my palms like an anchor to the present.

“Are you...” Ethan noticed because of course he did, his amusement shifting instantly to concern.

I shook my head, trying to hold onto the feeling even as it slipped away. “Just... fragments. Like catching the end of asong you used to know. You can hum along but you can't quite remember all the words.”

I expected him to press for details – everyone always did, hungry for signs that Past Jimmy might be emerging from wherever he was hiding. Instead, Ethan just nodded, his understanding somehow more affecting than any eager questions would have been.

“The last time we were honest with each other,” he said carefully, like he was handling something that might shatter, “we were sitting on a bench. Different bench, different lifetime.”

He didn't elaborate. I didn't ask. Something about the admission felt too delicate for questions, like those soap bubbles kids were blowing nearby – beautiful but likely to pop if examined too closely.

By the pond, Mr. Quackers had successfully claimed his prize, leading his feathered troops in what could only be described as a victory parade with half a sandwich as their spoils of war.

“Your duck is a criminal mastermind,” Ethan observed, but his voice held that same careful gentleness.

“I clearly had questionable taste in mentees.” I watched Mr. Quackers share his bounty with his conspirators. “Though I have to admire his leadership style. Very inclusive.”

“Using humor to deflect serious moments,” Ethan said softly. “That hasn't changed either.”

The comment should have felt like an accusation, but instead it felt like recognition. Like someone pointing out a favorite song you'd forgotten you knew how to sing.

“Does it bother you?” I asked, surprising myself. “That I can't remember... whatever that bench moment was?”

His smile held something complicated – sadness and hope and maybe a little fear. “What bothers me is that I wasted eight years being afraid of moments like this.”

The admission hung between us, as delicate as those soap bubbles floating past. Part of me wanted to ask what he meant, to demand explanations for all these hints and half-memories that everyone seemed to know about except me.

Instead, I watched Mr. Quackers organize his troops for what appeared to be another tactical bread acquisition. Sometimes understanding could wait. Sometimes it was enough just to sit on a bench with someone who knew your past but was willing to let you find your own way back to it.

---