Page 68 of Never Quite Gone

The stairs leading down felt familiar though I knew I'd never walked them before. My hand found the railing automatically, muscle memory from a lifetime I shouldn't remember guiding my steps. But I pushed that thought aside, focusing instead on the music growing stronger with each step.

The space opened before us like a dream made real – all warm woods and subtle lighting, tables scattered around a small stage where a quartet played something slow and sweet. The music hit me like a physical force, not memory exactly but something deeper. My hands tingled with phantom sensations, fingers wanting to dance across keys that weren't there.

I must have made some small sound because Alex's attention sharpened. But he didn't comment, just led us to a corner table where the music wrapped around us like a private embrace. Theserver appeared with water I hadn't asked for but somehow needed, her movements precise as she navigated the intimate space.

“The pianist reminds me of someone,” Alex said carefully, not pushing but offering space to talk if I wanted it. “The way she holds her hands, like she's telling stories with every note.”

I watched her fingers move across the keys, recognizing something in her posture that felt impossibly familiar. “I never learned piano,” I said, but the words felt hollow even to me. “Never had time, with medical school and residency...”

“But your hands remember,” he finished softly. Not a question, just quiet understanding.

The music shifted into something bluer, older, full of wanting and hope. Around us, other patrons swayed slightly in their seats, caught in the spell being woven on stage. But I felt it differently – felt it in my bones, in muscles that shouldn't know these rhythms, in hands that ached to join the conversation happening in melody and harmony.

“I dream about places like this,” I admitted, the confession feeling safer in jazz-warmed shadows. “Smoky clubs in Paris, music that sounds like this but different. Sometimes I wake up with songs in my head that I've never heard before.”

Alex's smile held no triumph at my words, just warmth. “The past has its own music,” he said. “But so does the present.”

The server returned with drinks we hadn't ordered – his exactly right, mine perfect. I should have questioned how he knew, but somehow it felt natural. Like everything about this evening, it walked the line between strange and familiar in ways I was learning not to overthink.

“Tell me about your day,” Alex said, shifting the conversation to safer ground. “How's the new trauma protocol working out?”

Gratitude washed through me at his gift of normalcy. We talked about hospital politics, about Sofia's uncanny ability to manage difficult board members, about the satisfaction of systems working exactly as designed. He listened with genuine interest,asking questions that showed he'd been paying attention to the things that mattered to me in this life, not just our supposed past ones.

The quartet took a break, and softer recorded jazz filled the comfortable silence between us. I found myself relaxing into the moment, into good company and better music and the strange peace of being exactly where I needed to be.

“Michael would have loved this place,” I said suddenly, surprising myself with how easily the words came. “He always said good jazz was like good architecture – all about the spaces between things.”

Alex's expression held no jealousy, just understanding. “He sounds like someone who understood the importance of negative space. Of letting silence speak as loudly as sound.”

“He did. He taught me to appreciate things I would have missed otherwise. To look for beauty in unexpected places.”

“Some loves do that,” Alex agreed softly. “Change how we see the world, make us better versions of ourselves.” His eyes met mine across the table. “All loves do that, if we let them.”

The quartet returned, and conversation settled into comfortable quiet as we listened. The pianist started something that made my fingers twitch with recognition, though I knew I'd never heard it before. Or had I? In another life, another time, another...

“Stop thinking so hard,” Alex murmured, gentle amusement in his voice. “Just listen. Just be here, now.”

So I did. I let the music wash over me without trying to catalog memories that might or might not be mine. Let myself exist in this moment – this space, this time, this version of myself that was still learning how to hold both past and present without breaking under their combined weight.

The first song ended, another began, and suddenly I wasn't there anymore.

The smoke hangs thick in Le Chat Noir, turning stage lights into halos as my fingers find their home on ivory keys. The piano is older than I am – this version of me anyway – its action wornsmooth by countless hands before mine. But we understand each other, this instrument and I, speaking a language older than words.

The crowd tonight is typically Parisian, sophisticated ennui masking desperate hunger for beauty after the war's ugliness. They pretend not to listen too closely, but I feel their attention like a physical thing. It's 1924, and the world is trying to remember how to dream.

He's here again – the man with sea-blue eyes who watches from the shadows. Alexandre, though he hasn't told me that yet. Won't tell me for weeks, though we both feel the recognition humming between us like a forgotten melody. I play for him without admitting it, letting my fingers tell stories we're not ready to voice.

The song pours through me like warm honey, bittersweet and perfect. My hands know these rhythms, this dance of melody and harmony that speaks of lives we can't quite remember. When I close my eyes, I see other places – sun-drenched temples, paint-stained studios – but those memories are still too fragile to examine closely.

So I play instead, letting music say what we can't. Alexandre listens from his usual table, understanding everything I'm not saying. His presence feels like anchor and wings both, holding me steady while letting me soar. We're both pretending we don't recognize souls older than this music, older than this city, older than these versions of ourselves.

The memory faded as gently as it had come, leaving me breathless in the present. Alex sat close enough to touch but didn't, letting me navigate the space between then and now. His eyes held the same warmth they had in Paris, but tempered now with hard-earned wisdom.

The quartet shifted into something slower, achingly familiar though I couldn't say why. Around us, other patrons swayed gently to the music, creating intimate spaces within the larger room.

“Dance with me?” Alex asked softly, his voice barely carrying over the music.

It should have felt too intimate, too soon. My wedding ringcaught the dim light, reminding me of all the reasons to say no. But as I stood, letting him guide me to the small dance floor, it felt like coming home.

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