She walked with her hands in her pockets and a soft rhythm in her steps, one foot always slightly ahead of her thoughts. The streets weren't crowded, but she still weaved between invisible memories as though they were people she had once known. Her notebook pressed against her side like a heartbeat — constant, unread.
She didn't know what she was looking for, but she knew how to look.
Not for truth. Not for answers.
But for those small, trembling threads of something almost lost — those moments that shimmered just before vanishing.
At the corner by the old music store, she stopped. The windows were dusty, the signs inside faded. She placed her palm against the glass, then leaned close as if listening.
A flash — not memory, not vision. Just a feeling.
A boy, once. With a scarf too long and laughter that startled her out of silence. He'd pointed at instruments she didn't understand and told her, "Even if you never play one, you should still pick a favorite."
She whispered now to no one, "Still the cello."
The door was locked, of course. But she didn't try to open it. She just sat beside it, notebook in her lap, pen uncapped.
Page after page — names she might try tomorrow.
Not to pretend, but to give shape to the things she hadn't yet remembered.
One page simply read:
Name: The one he used to say softly when I couldn't look up.
Underneath, in small shaky letters:
I want to find him first. Then maybe I'll know.
The night folded over the city like a second skin, and she stayed there — a quiet shadow of a girl trying to write herself back into something real.