Page 64 of Unlocking Melodies

“You came to Rosewood?” I couldn't keep the surprise from my voice.

“Every major performance.” Gary's smile was sad. “Always stayed in the back, left before you could see me. Figured you were better off without the reminder of what you were working so hard to escape from.”

“So you just... watched? Never said anything?”

“What could I say? 'Sorry for making you work three jobs to cover my debts'? 'Sorry for teaching you to sleep with your wallet under your pillow'?” His bitter laugh held years of self-recrimination. “Some mistakes don't get fixed with words.”

Sarah appeared with fresh coffee, her movements deliberately slow like she was trying not to interrupt. The diner had gone suspiciously quiet – even Mrs. Henderson's surveillance team seemed to be holding their breath.

“But you're here now,” I said after she left. “Trying to... what exactly?”

“To give you back your story.” Gary gestured at the album. “All of it. The good parts, the terrible parts, everything in between. Because maybe...” He stopped, seemed to gather courage. “Maybe knowing where you came from will help you figure out where you're going.”

The sincerity in his voice made my chest tight. Beside me, Ethan's thumb traced circles on my palm – a quiet reminder that I wasn't facing this alone.

“Tell me,” I said finally. “Tell me everything. Even the parts that hurt.”

Gary nodded, pulling out another photo. “It started after your mother died...”

The morning light filtered through Sarah's windows, painting everything in a soft glow that felt at odds with the heaviness of the moment. Gary's coffee grew cold as he spoke, his words painting pictures of a life I couldn't quite grasp but somehow felt in my bones.

“We lived near Riverside Park,” he said, pulling out another photo – a modest apartment building with flower boxes in the windows. “Your mother insisted on those window boxes. Said a home needed growing things.”

Something about that detail made my throat tight. Through the diner's window, I caught sight of my own apartment's flower boxes – a habit I'd started without knowing why.

“Maggie – your mother – she taught piano to half the neighborhood kids,” Gary continued, his voice softening with memory. “Our apartment was always full of music. Sometimes terrible music,” he managed a small laugh, “but she never minded. Said every wrong note was just jazz waiting to happen.”

The image hit something deep – sunshine through windows, the scent of coffee and sheet music, laughter over missed notes. Not a complete memory, but an echo of one.

“That's where you got it from,” Gary said, watching my reaction. “That gift. She could make anyone feel music in their soul. Even tone-deaf Mr. Martinez from the apartment next door ended up playing 'Heart and Soul' at the building's Christmas party.”

I felt Ethan's hand tighten in mine as Gary's voice caught. The warmth of his stories faded as he turned another page in the album.

“It happened so fast,” he murmured, staring into his untouched coffee like it held answers. “One day she was teaching, laughing at Mrs. Cohen's attempts at Chopsticks... and the next...” He swallowed hard. “I couldn't fix it. Couldn't save her. But I could chase that feeling of control at the tables.”

“The gambling,” I said quietly. It wasn't a question.

“Started small. Just poker nights with the guys from the precinct.” His laugh held no humor. “Then bigger games. Higher stakes. Anything to feel like I had some control over something.”

Through the window, I caught Mrs. Henderson hastily wiping her eyes. Even Sarah had stopped pretending to clean the counter, openly listening now.

“You tried to help,” Gary's voice cracked slightly. “God, you were just a kid, but you'd come find me at those casinos. Drag me home. Make sure I ate something besides bar peanuts.”

“Sounds exhausting,” I managed, though the words held less bite than I'd intended.

“You were too young to be that responsible.” He met my eyes directly. “You deserved better. Got yourself through school, into Rosewood on talent alone. I should have been there.”

“But you were,” I said slowly, remembering what he'd said earlier. “Watching from the back.”

“Every showcase. Every major performance.” He pulled out a program – creased and worn like it had been handled often. “You played Chopin that night. Made it sound like a conversation instead of just notes.”

“Why hide?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Why not just...”

“Just what? Show up and ruin another milestone?” Gary's self-deprecation felt familiar somehow. “You were finally free of me, of my mess. I didn't want to drag you back down.”

“So instead you just... watched?”

“Watched you become something amazing.” His smile was sad but proud. “Watched you build a life I couldn't mess up. Until now, I suppose.”

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