CHAPTER 12
1655 Words
Bruno’s Big Break: Silent Strings
The small café was almost empty when Bruno played.
Only a scattering of couples lingered at tables, murmuring to each other over half-finished cups of coffee. A waitress leaned against the counter, drying mugs absent-mindedly. No one had come for him, not really.
But Bruno didn’t care.
He closed his eyes as his fingers moved across the guitar strings, coaxing out the melody that had lived inside him since childhood. The notes rose like whispers, fragile and aching, as though the guitar itself mourned something it could not name.
And in that quiet corner of New York, his song spread across the room like a soft tide. Conversations slowed, coffee cups paused mid-air, and for a fleeting moment, the café held its breath.
Catherina’s song.
The melody they had once written together beneath a tree on a summer afternoon. The one memory he refused to let the world erase.
When the last chord faded, silence filled the café before a ripple of applause broke it. Not thunderous, but sincere. Bruno opened his eyes, bowing his head slightly, his throat tight.
“Beautiful,” an elderly man near the door said. “You don’t hear music like that anymore.”
The compliment warmed him, though it also deepened the ache in his chest. Because it wasn’t just music—it was a plea. A call across the void.
“Do you remember me, Catherina?”
That was the title of the song.
The café owner stopped Bruno as he was packing his guitar to leave after the set.
“Bruno,” she began, a hefty woman with kind eyes. “That song… it does something to people. You ever think of playing somewhere bigger? You’ve got talent.” She
asked.
He gave a slight smile. "I'm not sure anyone's ready to hear it." He replied.
"On the contrary," she urged, gesturing to him. “The world occasionally requires precisely what it doesn't anticipate. My friend is a performance booking agent for events at universities. I will add a word”. She’s said.
After hesitating, Bruno nodded and said, "Thank you."
He exited the café with a lighter step. For the first time in months, the silence within him didn't seem so loud.
However, nights proved to be the most difficult.
Each note was a message unsent, a conversation he still held with her in the dark, as Bruno sat by the window of his tiny apartment, his guitar resting against his knee, he strummed softly, allowing the buzz of the city to blend with his music.
He remembered the promise he made to her before she departed for Harvard: "No matter the distance, we'll find each other again."
But What if she'd already forgotten? What if fate had entirely altered her memories, so that the music no longer existed in her heart?
The thought screamed at him. Nonetheless, he played.
Because stopping would be Surrendering. And Bruno had never surrendered.
Most nights, he wrote letters he never mailed:
“Dear Catherina,
Today, I played the song again. People listened, but no one realized it wasn't written for them. It is yours. It has always been yours.”
He stored the letters in a box beneath his bed, a little record of devotion. Each page represented both a wound and a lifeline.
Weeks went by. Slowly but surely, word got out about his music. He started receiving invitations from students to play at open-mic evenings, and tiny theaters invited him to play before their main acts. People were drawn to his songs, which were full of calm fire and longing, not because they were well-polished but because they were authentic.
He was no longer just Bruno, the heartbroken boy who had lost the girl he adored. He was Bruno, the musician whose silent strings could convey stories that words could not.
A young journalist approached him one evening as he was leaving a gig.
"Bruno Sanchez, correct? I'm Maya Torres from New York Beats. I would love to include you in an upcoming piece. Your music conveys a personal touch and a desire to connect with others. "Who are you singing to?" She inquired with a burst of enthusiasm.
The question took him off guard. For a moment, he pondered lying, dismissing it as "just art." Then he shook his head.
“Someone I lost,” he replied simply.
Her pen hovered over her notebook. “A girl?”
His throat tightened. “Yes. A girl.”
“And do you think she’ll ever hear your music?” She questioned again.
He turned away from the neon lights illuminating across the street. His voice scarcely rose beyond a whisper.
“I hope so. It’s the only way she’ll remember me.” He responded.
The article came out two weeks later:
The headline— “Silent Strings: The Music of Bruno Sanchez.”
The work portrayed him as a mysterious emerging star, a youngster whose songs held the weight of lost love and unfulfilled promises. It spread faster than he expected, via blogs and social media.
Catherina discovered it one evening in a dim apartment across town, unknown to Bruno.
She was sitting on the couch with Junior's abandoned newspaper when she noticed the headline. The black-and-white photograph depicted a young man holding a guitar and looking downcast. Something clenched in her chest.
She wasn't sure why, but her hands trembled as she read every word.
Unexpectedly, a melody—soft, familiar—rose in her head.
Her heart skipped.
"Catherina!" Junior startled her with his voice. Before he could notice, she hastily folded the page and tucked it away. She smiled artificially and answered, "Just reading."
But that night, as she lay awake, the name Bruno Sanchez flashed across her head like a half-forgotten dream.
Back in his environs, Bruno was oblivious of the spark his story had ignited.
He spent his days rehearsing, his evenings performing, and his mornings drafting letters he never mailed, each one conveying the same message: he was waiting.
But waiting wasn’t easy.
On some evenings, the solitude of his apartment felt like a weight pressing down on him, and on other nights, loneliness tore at him so hard that he nearly gave up. Until sleep finally dragged him under, he would mumble, "Where are you?" while pressing his forehead against the guitar's body.
He dreamed about her all the time.
Sweet dreams occasionally included fingers gliding across strings and laughter in the June breeze. Sometimes he had nightmares of Catherina calling his name and then disappearing into the darkness before he could get to her.
Bruno performed at a university banquet on Saturday, his largest stage performance so far. As he stepped onto the platform, lights bathed him in gold, and hundreds of faces looked forward.
For a brief while, anxieties clawed at him. But then he remembered the summer breeze, the way her laughter flown, and how her hand fit perfectly into his.
He began to play.
The melody spread like a thin string, delicate and aching, filling the hall. His voice joined it, low and rough, telling the narrative of a promise and two souls connected by distance.
The audience was hushed, fascinated. Many people were in tears, for reasons unknown.
And somewhere deep in the city, Catherina awoke in her sleep, her heart beating to the sound of a music she couldn't identify but knew.
She gripped her chest and whispered into the darkness.
“Why does it feel like someone’s calling me?” She whispered.
Bruno ended with a final chord, his voice breaking. He bent his head, unwilling to look up to the thunderous applause.
Even though there were many strangers in the hall, he was still singing to one person in his heart.
And until she returned, the strings in his heart would be silent—aching, waiting, remembering.
Following the gala, numerous talent scouts approached him with offers, including tryouts, studio time, and a preliminary contract. Bruno gently thanked them, but he knew nothing would matter unless she heard him.
To Bruno Fame wasn’t the goal. Her Memory was.
Meanwhile, Catherina found herself humming fragments of the song she couldn’t place. At times it came to her in dreams, at others in the hush of the library or the buzz of the subway. Junior noticed and grew suspicious, but she brushed him off.
Each hum, each sound, was like a thread stitching back a life she hadn't realized she had lost.
And even though oceans of silence stretched and lies still stood between them, the melody was finding its way back—quietly, insistently, inevitably.
For silent strings might not be able to shout. However, they never forget.
Bruno sat by himself with his guitar laying on his knees while the lights went down and the clapping eventually subsided. Even though the hall was now deserted, his song's echoes could still be heard in the rafters, resonating in the quiet like a secret promise.
Her gaze, her laughter, the summer tune they had once woven together came back to him. He was unaware of her whereabouts, if she still recognized him, or whether her heart had been sealed away in a realm he would never be able to enter. With all the fire still burning within him, however, he held fast to the belief that music never dies.
Each word was a prayer, each chord a promise, and each note he played was a memory. Despite the fact that fate had taken her away from him, her name was preserved in the silent strings, unaffected by the passing of time.
Catherina felt a pull somewhere, but she couldn't explain why. A subtle tug in her chest, a ghostly music from her spirit. She didn't remember the boy yet. However, the music remained memorable for both of them.
Indeed, the love that was strung into silent strings never faded.
- Writer
