STRINGS OF THE PAST (A Song we will play)

CHAPTER 8

Frustrated Bruno

Bruno had never felt so helpless.

The cold wind clawed through his jacket, pulling on his sleeves like unseen hands. His own hands trembled, not from the chill of the night, but from the empty aching within him. His phone was gone. Stolen in a thoughtless moment while walking towards the subway. And with it, the delicate thread that connected him to her- Catherina.

Her phone number. Her voice.

All gone, severed by a petty thief and a cruel twist of fate.

Bruno placed the heels of his palms to his eyes, resisting the need to scream. He felt like a shipwrecked sailor, watching the final flame fade into the seas.

But Bruno was not the kind to give up. Not when it came to her.

The following morning, determination replaced despair. He stormed inside his small room, scattering books and papers until his fingers brushed against something familiar—an old wooden box pushed to the back of the closet.

Inside, beneath a folded scarf, was a stack of cream-colored stationery, the kind his mother used for handwritten letters. The parchment retained a faint lavender aroma, persistent and delicate, one that belonged to her.

Bruno remembered that his mother had always stated that words on paper lasted longer than words in air.

He lifted the top paper reverently. "If I can't call her," he said softly, "I'll write her. Letters don't vanish as phones do."

He straightened the page on his desk, the pen shaking in his hand. For a long time, he stared at the blankness, remembering Catherina— her piercing laugh, her hair catching the sun, the way her palm had squeezed against his when she promised they'd never be apart.

Then the words poured out, drawn from the searing anguish in his chest:

“My Cat,

I misplaced your phone number. My phone was taken, and I can't call you as promised. But I'm writing because I meant what I said: I'll never let distance keep us apart. Please write back. Please do not give up on me.

Yours, always,

Bruno.”

He carefully folded the page, slipped it into an envelope, and in his neatest handwriting penned the address:

Harvard University, Perkins Hall Dormitory, Room 214.

He remembered distinctly how she had given him her acceptance letter on the library steps, her eyes alight with passion. He'd memorized it, as if cutting it into his heart.

After sealing the envelope, he put it between his lips for a moment—part prayer, half superstition—before heading down to the corner mailbox. The clang of metal as it sank into the slot sounded like a vow within him.

"This will reach her," he said quietly. "It has to."

The days merged into unsettling patterns.

Every morning, Bruno's footsteps echoed down the corridor to the building's mailbox. His chest constricted as he turned the key. His pulse raced at the sight of envelopes, only to plummet when none displayed her name. Bills. Flyers. Promises that never come true.

Nights were worst. He lay awake, Gloria balanced on his knees, plucking notes that split apart before becoming songs. The strings occasionally appeared to sing with the sound of her laughing. Sometimes they fell silent, as if the wood itself was mourning with him.

By the fifth day, hope had begun to fade. His lecturers' comments at Juilliard sounded distant and garbled, like sounds underwater. His friends noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes and how he moved through practices.

On the sixth evening, arriving home from a long rehearsal, he dragged himself to the mailbox again, braced for disappointment.

Then he saw it.

An envelope addressed in neat block letters: Mr. Bruno Sanchez.

His pulse pounded. His breathing increased. He ripped it open with shaky fingers. Relief flooded him so fast that he became dizzy.

"She wrote back, she still cares…" he said, almost laughing.

But the handwriting wasn't right. Too stiff. Too formal.

It wasn't Catherina's.

The letter was short. Cold. Each phrase cuts like a blade:

“Dear Mr. Sanchez,

We regret to inform you that while on campus, Miss Catherina Holland was involved in a car accident. It is not feasible to communicate with her at this time because she is receiving medical attention. In the event that her situation changes, we will provide more updates.

Sincerely,

Office of Student Affairs, Harvard University.”

At that instant, Bruno's world came crashing down around him.

The paper slid from his grasp, fluttering to the floor like a wounded bird. For a long while, he sat rigid, chest clenched, with the words repeating inside him: accident, communication not possible.

His vision clouded. His breath became shallow.

"No," he said hoarsely, gripping his hair. "No, no, no…"

He took the letter from the floor again, wanting to read the terrible sentences. Perhaps he misunderstood. Maybe the words might rearrange themselves, revealing a hidden loophole.

However, they did not change. They looked back at him with brutal black strokes on white paper.

His own envelope—the one sealed with his vow—was still on its way. But Catherina might never open it. She would never know he hadn’t abandoned her.

The realization devastated him. He buried his face in his palms and let out a sound that was neither a sob nor a scream, but rather raw, jagged, and torn from his innermost portion.

The next morning, Bruno awoke with a single thought: “I have to visit her”, he told himself.

Sitting still felt like betrayal. Music felt hollow. Even breathing seemed meaningless if it didn't get him closer to her.

Massachusetts was several hours away by train. Juilliard would almost certainly understand if he explained it. Surely, his trustees—those in charge of his father's inheritance, until he became of age, would spare him enough money to make the journey.

He walked inside the Dean's office first. His voice shook as he described the scenario, the accident, and the urgency. Bruno begged. "I just need a leave of absence, One week. Even for a few days. She is my..." He stopped short of telling him everything.

The Dean frowned and tapped a pen on her desk. "Mr. Sanchez, I appreciate how terrible this is, but absences during performance season are not allowed. You're already struggling in your academics. Missing now would risk your position here”, He said.

"But she could die!" The words poured out of him. "Don't you get it?" "She might pass away, but I'd never..." Bruno said to establish his point.

His face softened but remained firm. “I’m sorry. The answer is no.” The Dean responded.

Anger flashed, but hopelessness quickly suppressed it.

He then went to the trustees, contacting every phone number and sending every email. "It's my money," he insisted. "My father bequeathed it to me. I only need enough to purchase a ticket."

But the bureaucracy was a frigid machine. "Funds can only be disbursed for tuition and approved expenses," was the recurring response. "Travel for personal reasons is outside the terms of the trust."

Every rejection was like a door slamming in his face.

By the third day, Bruno was tired, trapped between two universes that refused to bend. Juilliard demanded his dedication to music. The trustees guarded money that he could not touch. And Catherina was in a hospital bed hundreds of miles away, unreachable.

He even pondered skipping classes and taking the train with his limited resources. But a look in his wallet revealed only a few crumpled bills—not enough for food, let alone a journey to Boston.

For the first time in his life, he felt bound not just by fate, but also by walls constructed by others.

The days that followed were hazy.

He still went to classes, but his professor's lectures passed by him like mist. The piano keys under his fingers felt strange, and the notes collapsed into noise. His assignments piled up, unfinished. His grades dropped significantly.

He has stopped eating adequately. Plates became cold on the table, scarcely touched. Coffee and weariness were his diet. His body thinned and his eyes sunken.

Catherina's visage haunted him everywhere—in the subway's rattling windows, the glow of streetlamps, and the silence of rehearsal rooms. He heard her giggle among passing strangers and felt her touch on his hand as the sun warmed it.

But at night, the illusions dissipated. He sat in the dark with Gloria on his lap, fingers bleeding as he played till the strings shattered. Each note represented pain, a lament crushed into wood. He composed poems about stars too distant to reach and choruses about promises broken by fate.

He imagined her listening from a distance and hearing his voice in her fantasies. Other times, stillness crushed him until he thought she was gone forever.

One evening, rain tapped softly against his window, like a faraway drumming. Bruno sat on the floor, knees close, Gloria on his lap. His hair fell onto his face, moist from sweating while playing.

He whispered into the room, his voice cracked and raw:

"Cat… If you can't hear me, I'll make the world listen for you. I'll keep playing till the music gets back to you”.

The words hung in the air, frail but unbreakable.

Something changed at that very instant. His anguish was no longer directed solely internally. It expanded forth, changing itself.

It became purpose.

The boy who formerly played music to survive, strummed to escape loneliness, now plays for love. For memory. For hope.

Every audition, stage, and trembling chord became a plea, a message sent into the universe. If she couldn't hear his voice, the world would do it for her.

Somewhere, somehow, he believed, she was still listening.

And until she answered, he would never stop.