Page 9 of Unlocking Melodies

The light turned red, and suddenly there was a flash of red hair and rapid movement as someone rushed toward our car.

“Jimmy!” A woman with bright eyes and freckles tapped on the window. Caleb rolled it down, and her smile was like a punch to the gut - so genuine, so relieved, so familiar to everyone except me.

“Nina owns The Watering Hole,” Liam explained quickly. “She's-“

“One of your best friends,” she finished, then stopped. Her expression shifted as she really looked at me. “Something's wrong.”

It wasn't a question. Somehow that made it worse.

“He's having some memory issues,” Caleb said gently. “From the accident.”

“Issues?” I couldn't help the bitter laugh. “That's a fun way to say I don't remember anything. Or anyone. Sorry.”

The last word came out sharper than I meant it to. Nina flinched like I'd slapped her, then quickly tried to hide it behind a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

“Oh honey.” She reached through the window like she wanted to touch my shoulder, then thought better of it. “Your job's safe, okay? I've been handling things at the bar, and whenever you're ready-“ She caught herself, and I watched her physically adjust her approach in real time. “But no pressure at all. Just focus on getting better. That's all that matters.”

There it was again. That careful recalibration I was starting to recognize - people adjusting their expectations of me in real time, rewriting scripts that no longer worked, trying to connect with someone who was basically a stranger wearing their friend's face.

“Thanks,” I managed, because she was trying so hard to make this okay.

The light turned green. Nina stepped back, and I caught her reflection in the side mirror as we pulled away. She was still standing there, watching us go, and the look on her face made me want to crawl out of my own skin.

We passed a newspaper stand, and something caught my eye - a headline about a tech company’s new acquisition with a photo that triggered... something. Not a memory exactly, but a feeling. Like when you walked into a room and forgot what you came for, but the intention was still there, hovering just out of reach.

Before I could focus on it, Caleb was pointing out the window. “Look, they finally fixed that pothole by the library. You were complaining about that for months.”

The rest of the drive was a blur of landmarks that should have meant something but didn't. The local park where I apparently helped with summer concerts. The music store where I had “an account.” The community center where I taught piano lessons. Or had taught. Past tense? Present? What were you supposed to call things you didn't remember doing but might still be responsible for?

“Home sweet home,” Caleb announced as we turned onto a gravel road. The sign read “Rolling Hill Ranch” in weathered wooden letters.

I wanted to feel relieved. Or nervous. Or anything really. Instead, I just felt tired. Tired of pretending to care about places I didn't remember. Tired of apologizing for not being the Jimmy everyone knew. Tired of trying to piece together a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.

“You okay?” Liam asked softly as Caleb parked.

“Sure,” I lied again, because it was becoming a habit.

They exchanged another one of those looks - the ones that said they knew more than they were telling. But right then, I was too exhausted to care. One mystery at a time seemed like plenty.

Walking into the house felt like being handed someone else's life to try on. The space was bright and open, sunlight streaming through large windows that looked out over rolling pastures. Everyone kept calling it “my place,” but nothing there triggered even a flicker of recognition.

“Kitchen's stocked with your favorites,” Liam said, opening cabinets. “Peanut butter cups in the freezer, those weird pickle-flavored chips you like-“

“I like pickle chips?”

His hand froze on the cabinet door. “Right. Sorry. Want me to just make a list?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. He grabbed a notepad from a drawer (apparently I kept notepads in drawers) and started writing while I explored.

The bedroom was worse. Clothes in the closet that fit me perfectly but I didn't remember buying. Books on the nightstand with receipts marking places I didn't recall reading to. A guitar in the corner that Caleb eyed hopefully.

“Maybe you want to try? Music memory can be different from-“

“Not yet.” The words came out too quick, too sharp. “Just... not yet.”

Finally, they left me alone. I stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by evidence of a life I had supposedly built, feeling like the world's worst method actor who had forgotten to research his role.

Time to play detective in the mystery of my own existence.

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