STRINGS OF THE PAST (A Song we will play)

CHAPTER 10

A Stranger’s Hand and Glimpse of Catherina’s Past

The world outside the hospital smelt strange to Catherina Holland.

Catherina inhaled deeply as the breeze brushed over her face, conveying the aroma of moist concrete, light gasoline, and roasted chestnuts from a vendor across the street. Even the distant aroma of coffee from a nearby café seemed overbearing. It felt too loud, too crowded, too alive after weeks of muted walls, antiseptic cleaners, and sterile bedding from the hospital.

She tightened her coat around her shoulders. The air wasn’t exactly cold, but the rush of the city felt raw against her skin, like she was stepping into a life that had kept moving without her.

Junior walked beside her as if he belonged everywhere. His hand gently rested on her back, leading her through the crowd as if she were fragile glass. His outfit glittered in the afternoon sun, and he adjusted his sunglasses in a manner that appeared more choreographed than necessary.

“Careful,” he murmured when she stumbled slightly at the curb. “The city doesn’t wait for anyone.”

She gave him a small smile of gratitude, though inside, unease pricked at her. His hand was steady, warm, reassuring—but also foreign. It felt like leaning on a stranger.

That was the cruelest part of her memory loss: every face was a mask, every voice a question. She searched the world for familiarity, for anchors, but nothing fit.

Nothing except the shadows of a melody in her dreams.

Junior’s apartment overlooked the Hudson River, a sleek glass fortress with polished floors and minimalist furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline like a painting. The place was beautiful, almost perfect, but cold.

“You’ll be comfortable here,” Junior said, setting her hospital-issued bag down by the couch. “Everything you need is at your disposal. Consider it your home.”

Catherina nodded, though the word home felt hollow. Home was supposed to be warm, cluttered with laughter, photographs, and memories. She had none of those.

As evening stretched on, Junior poured her a glass of wine, the red liquid catching the city lights. He spoke with ease, weaving stories of Harvard debates, basketball victories, and nights spent studying together.

She listened politely, nodding in the right places, though none of it sparked recognition. The names of professors and classmates blurred together. The events sounded real, but sounded Cliche like anecdotes rehearsed too many times.

At one point, she asked quietly, “Junior… were we really close like that?”

He leaned back, smiling with perfect teeth. “Closer than anyone. You trusted me. You leaned on me. We shared… everything.”

The way he said it carried weight, unspoken implications that made her shift uncomfortably. But she said nothing, afraid of offending the only person who seemed to know her.

Yet later that night, as she lay awake on the plush guest bed, the unease returned. His stories were too neat, too polished, like lines from a script. And always, beneath his charm, she caught flickers of something else— possessiveness, impatience and Somewhat jealousy anytime she mentioned the name Bruno.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep. And in the silence, the music returned.

Strings, soft and haunting. Fingers moving across guitar frets. A boy’s laugh, warm and unguarded. A promise whispered: “No matter what happens, I’ll find you.”

Her lips parted in the dark, and before she could stop herself, she whispered the name again.

“Bruno.”

The word hung in the air, fragile and not permitted.

Meanwhile, across the city, Bruno was learning how to cope with heartbreak.

He then turned to music, the one thing that had never let him down.

As he sat bent over his guitar, strumming with raw fingers, the night turned into the dawn. He composed songs that were infused with sadness, longing, and the hope that she might one day hear them. Every chord was an unsent message, and every lyric was a silent prayer.

Initially, nobody paid attention. The people around him were upset by the late-night music and began banging on the wall. During rehearsals, his classmates muttered about his preoccupied demeanor. He carried rhythms that no one else could hear as he moved through the city like a dead man.

But gradually, slowly, people started to take notice.

A little café owner on Bleecker Street granted him a slot at their open-mic night. The first time he performed, his voice broke from anxiety, but the audience remained hushed, hanging on every note. When he finished, the entire room erupted in applause.

For the first time since her accident, he felt alive.

The café invited him back. Then another venue. Strangers began asking for his name and whistling his unfinished songs as they left. He didn't realize it at the time, but music he poured his heart into would one day serve as the bridge connecting her fragmented memories.

Back in Junior's apartment, life fell into an odd rhythm. He escorted Catherina to her courses, frequently standing outside like a shadow. He insisted on selecting restaurants, activities, and even her clothing. At first, she persuaded herself it was care—that he was watching out for her in her vulnerable position. But, gradually, she recognized it was about control.

After a seminar one afternoon, she stayed at the library long after the others had left. Her fingertips traced the spines of books, looking for anything that may evoke recognition.

Then she found it.

A music theory book, worn at the edges, slipped off the shelf. When it hit the floor, a folded sheet of paper dropped out. She snatched it up and unfolded it with quivering hands. Notes were written across the board, forming a sloppy yet passionate melodic line.

Her heart jumped as her eyes skimmed the notes. She had no idea why, but she could nearly hear it in her thoughts. A guitar and a voice. A boy laughs.

Her breath caught. Her eyes welled up with tears, for no apparent reason. She clutched the paper against her chest, grasping it like a lifeline.

That evening, Junior found the folded piece in her pocket. His jaw stiffened as he attempted a smile.

"What's that?" he inquired nonchalantly.

"Just something I found," she answered softly, unwilling to reveal more.

His smile faltered. He reached for her hand, squeezing it a little too tightly. “Don’t dwell on the past, Catherina. It’s gone. What matters is the life we’re building now.”

But she was not convinced. The music wouldn't leave her mind. It followed her into her dreams, filling her with both warmth and grief at once.

Junior's charm began to deteriorate in little ways.

When she expressed wanting to walk to class alone, he became agitated. "Alone? In this city? No. I won't let you take the risk." He spoke in a commanding tone.

When she paused to look at a street musician strumming a guitar, he grabbed her arm sharply and drew her away. "Don't waste your time with beggars." Junior said.

When she whispered Bruno's name in her sleep, he shook her up, his eyes filled with rage. "Who is that? Who are you dreaming of?". He asked.

She stammered, puzzled and terrified, but he just turned away, cursing under his breath.

It was then that she discovered something chilling: Junior did more than just care for her. He wanted to own her.

She escaped to the balcony one night, following another uncomfortable dinner. The metropolis stretched before her, sparkling and limitless. She believed that the answer lay somewhere out there. There was the boy whose name clung to her heart like a song she couldn't shake.

She closed her eyes and whispered it again.

“Bruno.”

And, despite the fact that the city had drowned her voice, Bruno strummed his guitar miles away at the same time, murmuring her name into the strings.

Unaware that fate was already reassembling their destinies, two broken fragments were beckoning to one another in the dark.

However, for the time being, Junior observed from the shadows of the apartment behind Catherina, his gaze burning with ownership, while she stood on the balcony, holding on to the memory of a song.

As the doors closed behind them, Junior moved to the balcony and gripped her hand tightly. “You see?” He looked directly into her eyes and said, "You don't have to worry about anything; I will be with you until the end of time, and I will be your past and your present."

She had come this far because of a stranger's hand, but she knew deep down that it wasn't the hand she was meant to hold.

***

Catherina was unaware that Bruno was sifting through his own shadows, miles away in New York, looking for her voice, her face, and her number. He was putting all of his heart into songs and strings, promising that the world would hear what she was unable to.

She was only aware of the reverberation of an unidentified music that was buried deep within her.

Her mind had deceived her, fogged and broken. But her heart remembered.

The darkness in her head were heavy, but somewhere inside them, a light flickered brightly, waiting for the right chord, the right voice to summon it back.