CHAPTER 2
1643 Words
Guitar Lessons and Bruno’s Confession
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting amber light across the park. The air smelled like newly cut grass, popcorn from a vendor across the street, and the mild sweetness of blooming 'pride of Barbados' trees. Laughter reverberated from youngsters chasing kites, yet beneath the broad limbs of the old oak tree, the world appeared to settle into a quiet cadence.
They had grown to rely on this oak for more than simply shade. It was their haven, their unspoken agreement. The seat underneath it held innumerable memories— scribbled lyrics on torn notebook paper, futile efforts at harmonies that ended in laughter, and half-finished songs that no one else would ever hear. To Bruno Sanchez and his best friend Catherina Holland, this park corner was a completely different universe.
Bruno positioned his guitar on his knee, fingers carelessly touching the frets. Catherina's little guitar nestled securely on her lap next to him, her posture straight and her gaze intense. Strands of her chestnut hair caught the sunshine, turning copper for fleeting periods as the breeze moved.
Bruno leaned forward and swiped to unlock his phone. His thumb browsed till he came to a bookmarked YouTube video he'd been saving. His eyes glowed with anticipation.
"Here it is," he murmured, angling the screen at her.
Bruno had studied the familiar melody for weeks, and it drifted softly yet clearly from the tiny speakers. The chords appeared basic, but the emotion behind them made the song memorable.
Catherina leaned in to watch. Her shampoo had a fresh aroma of florals, possibly jasmine, combined with the earthy musk of the oak tree. Bruno inhaled unconsciously, his heart pumping too quickly for such a brief interval.
Her fingers glided smoothly across the frets, plucking the first few notes as if the music was sleeping inside her, ready to awaken.
Bruno's chest felt crushed. He was unable to turn away.
“You’re a natural,” he murmured. His voice was softer than he intended, reverent almost, but every word came from a place deeper than admiration.
With a laugh, Catherina brushed a flyaway hair behind her ear. She had a slight flush to her cheeks. She taunted, gently poking his arm with her elbow, "That's only because I have the best teacher", She said.
The band played for an hour. Time appeared to slow as the chords blended with the sound of leaves rustling, making the outside world seem inconsequential.
High above, birds nested, their strumming accompanied by chirping. The invisible thread of the two of them woven together as they played the guitar and sang occasionally caused onlookers to halt down and listen.
Bruno took a battered notebook out of his backpack when their fingers hurt and their laughter overpowered the music. Fragments of lyrics, scrawled rhymes, and drawings of guitars adorned the pages.
With a casual tone and ardent eyes, he proposed, "Let's write something new."
Grinning, Catherina nodded her head. "All right. However, the lyrics are your responsibility. I will handle the melody”, she reiterated.
Their cooperation developed as naturally as breathing. Beneath this oak tree, Bruno wrote words that always seemed louder: friendship, loyalty, and laughter. Whistling a tune, Catherina experimented until the words fit together like a puzzle.
As the sun sank, orange and violet stains appeared on the horizon. Their incomplete but lively music was exclusively theirs.
Later, they perched on a low stone wall near the park's entrance, each holding an ice cream cone. Bruno's was mint chocolate, with green bits already melting down the sides. Catherina's was strawberry swirl, with vivid pink smudges on her fingers where the scoop had started to collapse.
Bruno focused on the droplets that were trickling down his hand. His heartbeat sounded in his ears. He'd practiced the lines several times, but now that the time had come, his throat felt dry.
"Catherina…" His voice cracked, soft yet firm enough as he called her name.
She looked up, licking a trace of strawberry from her thumb. "Yeah?", she answered.
Her gaze was drawn to his dark, loving eyes that were endlessly sympathetic. Bruno inhaled sharply, propelling himself forward.
"I like you." Not simply as a friend. More. I've been carrying it for weeks. I couldn't keep it in any longer." Bruno said.
The world appeared to pause. The street musician at the corner played a single, lingering note. The leaves rustled in slow motion.
Catherina's face softened, but her pity was as keen as glass.
"Bruno, you're really essential to me. You are my best friend. You are family. I cannot risk losing that." She spoke.
The words stayed in his chest like stones. His gut sunk, but he faked a weak smile. He would not let her know the full extent of his disappointment.
“I get it,” he said quietly. “I just… I had to tell you.” He continued.
She reached out, her fingers brushing across his forearm. "I don't want this to change anything between us." She Said.
"It won't," he claimed. Perhaps that was just half true. He meant it, even as his heart twisted like a tightened rope.
They finished their cones silently. The air wasn't broken, but it wasn't the same—it stretched taut between them, fragile, like a note played too long on trembling strings.
Bruno sat in his room. His desk lamp's golden radiance reflected off strewn notebooks and guitar picks. Above his workstation hung a framed acoustic bass guitar that his mother had once owned and loved; its name was Gloria.
It wasn’t simply wood and strings. To Bruno, Gloria was memories, blood, and unresolved questions.
The confession to Catherina revived scars he believed were numb. He strummed Gloria lightly, the notes vibrating against his chest like a heartbeat. He imagined his mother's presence in the sound—her humming lullabies, the way she smiled when she sang, and pieces of warmth he could never entirely comprehend.
For a brief moment, he thought he heard her voice above the strings.
A knock shocked him.
“Come in,” Bruno said quickly, brushing at his eyes.
Mr. Sanchez entered, his large figure filling the doorway. His eyes softened when he saw Gloria in Bruno's hands. "It's been years since you played that," he remarked quietly.
Bruno hesitated. “Dad… tell me about Mom. About her music.”
Mr. Sanchez sat on the bed, his shoulders burdened with unspoken words. "Your mother was more than simply a player. Music was her soul. Gloria served as her anchor. She found that playing for hours alleviated her agony. She was extraordinary." His voice cracked slightly, pride and grief mixed.
Bruno's chest clenched. "Then why don't you talk about her? Why do you keep her in the shadows?” , he questioned his father.
Silence extended. Mr. Sanchez finally exhaled. "Because your mother was not who you believed she was. She was renowned once. Not simply locally famous. Her name carried weight in areas you had never been. However, she lived in hiding to avoid danger. People who would have utilized her harmed her. Leaving was the only way to ensure your safety."
Bruno's breath caught. "Why haven't you told me? Why hide her from me entirely?" He asked in frustration.
Mr. Sanchez's mouth tightened. "Because you might have been in danger too if you knew."
A folded piece of paper fell out of Gloria's case before Bruno could get any farther. Bruno's fingers were shaking as he leaned to pick it up. The writing was rushed and urgent.
“You’re not who you think you are”, were the words written on it.
He was completely chilled by the remarks.
“Dad… what does this mean?”
It was still impossible to read Mr. Sanchez's expression. "I don't know," he responded slowly, despite the implication in his tone. “However, it has to do with your mother's history. It implies that we must use caution. And be very cautious.”
Unable to sleep, Bruno went into the attic later that night. When he discovered a tiny leather-bound journal, dust stuck to his palms. As if time hadn't dared to take away his mother's aroma, her subtle perfume was still clinging to its pages.
After he paused, he opened it. His heart raced as if the book itself would make all the difference.
The entries were shards of a double life, scattered here and there. Unfinished songs. Odd cautions about "watchful eyes" Notes regarding unfamiliar locations for Bruno. Every page was written with intensity, and the words seemed haunted.
And then, references to Bruno. To her son.
“She says he has her gift.”
“She fears the people who are watching her will come for him.”
“He must never know the full truth until the time is right.”
Bruno felt his chest tighten. Staring at the diary as if it burnt his hands, he snapped it shut.
“What else am I missing?” he whispered to himself.
Mr. Sanchez reappeared in the doorway, his countenance solemn, as though called by his conflict.
“Pack a bag,” he said quietly. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”
Bruno’s eyes widened. “Leaving? To Where?”
“To somewhere safe. Somewhere we can find answers.” Mr. Sanchez answered.
Bruno's mind was racing that night as he packed clothes into a backpack. The words on the note reverberated more loudly than the outside storm:
“You’re not who you think you are”.
For the first time, Bruno understood that the life he believed to be his own—the oak tree, the park bench, and even his confession to Catherina— was only the tip of the iceberg.
A storm of secrets was forming. And he was standing in the center.
- Writer
