Unlocking Melodies (Oakwood Grove #3)

1. Stranger in My Own Life

Chapter 1

Stranger in My Own Life

B eeping dragged me back to consciousness. Again. This time the steady, insistent sound was familiar. Though with my head feeling like it had been stuffed with steel wool and set on fire, I wasn't entirely sure being alive was still the better option.

Opening my eyes was just as difficult as the first time. My eyelids felt like concrete, and the second attempt only earned me stabbing fluorescent lights and regret. The room swam into focus - same white walls, same generic artwork screaming “hospital,” same window looking out at nothing interesting.

Two guys occupied those uncomfortable plastic chairs hospitals seemed to buy in bulk. One had a guitar case leaning against his leg, which seemed weird for a hospital visit. The other was typing on his phone with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for defusing bombs. They both looked up when I managed to make a noise that was supposed to be “water” but came out more like a dying cat.

“Jimmy!” Guitar Case Guy practically leapt out of his chair. “Thank god. We've been worried sick.”

Phone Guy was already reaching for a cup with a straw. “Small sips, okay? Doctor's orders.”

I took the water because my throat felt like sandpaper, but something wasn't right. These guys were acting like they knew me, but their faces triggered no recognition. I knew my own name now - Jimmy Reed - and what year it was, but these two? Nothing. Just more blank spaces where memories should have been.

“Who are you?”

The words came out clearer than I meant them to. Guitar Case Guy froze mid-smile. Phone Guy's hand tightened on the cup.

“Jimmy,” Guitar Case Guy said slowly, “it's us. Liam and Caleb? From the ranch?”

I stared at them both. Nothing. Their faces might as well have been stock photos for all the recognition they triggered.

“I don't...” My voice caught. “I don't know you.”

What followed was a blur of doctors and nurses and more tests than I knew existed. A neurologist with kind eyes explained terms like “traumatic amnesia” and “retrograde memory loss” while I tried to wrap my head around the fact that I was someone named Jimmy Reed.

“What's the last thing you remember?” Phone Guy - Caleb - asked.

I closed my eyes, trying to grab onto something concrete. “Music. I remember music.”

“That's good!” Guitar Case Guy - Liam - perked up. “Music's a huge part of your life. You're my manager, actually. Have been for about three years now.”

He pulled out his phone, starting to swipe through photos. “Look, here we are at The Watering Hole after my first big show. And this is from the ranch last summer - you were helping us break in that new mare, remember?”

I stared at the photos blankly. There were people smiling at the camera, one raising a beer, another sitting on a fence with a horse. But I couldn't tell which one was supposed to be me.

“Which... which one am I?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.

Liam's face fell slightly, but he recovered quickly. “This one,” he said, pointing to a guy with disheveled dark hair who was grinning at the camera. “That's you, right there.”

I studied the stranger who was apparently me. He looked happy, comfortable, like he belonged in that moment with these people. But it was like watching a movie about someone else's life. That guy in the photos might have had my face, but he felt about as familiar as my supposed friends sitting next to me - which was to say, not at all.

“I don't...” I swallowed hard. “None of this feels real.”

“Hey, it's okay.” Caleb's voice was gentle. “The doctor said this might happen. We'll help you figure it out.”

“But who am I?” The question came out smaller than I meant it to. “I mean, what kind of person am I? What do I do? Where do I live?”

They exchanged looks that made my stomach twist.

“You're one of the good ones,” Liam said finally. “You're smart, funny as hell, and you've got an ear for music that's almost scary. You live in Oakwood Grove - we can take you there when they release you. Your apartment's above The Watering Hole.”

“I live above a bar?”

“Nina gives you a deal on rent in exchange for helping with the books.” Caleb grinned. “You're surprisingly good with numbers for a music guy.”

I tried to picture it - this life they were describing. But it was like trying to remember a dream that was already fading. All I had were fragments: the feel of piano keys under my fingers, the smell of coffee, a melody I couldn't quite catch.

“There's something else,” I said slowly. “Something important. I can feel it, but...”

“It'll come back,” Liam said, but there was something careful in his voice. Like he wasn't telling me everything.

I looked down at my hands, wrapped in white gauze. The bandages masked what I assumed must be some kind of injury, though I couldn't feel much beyond a dull ache. My fingers poked out from the wrappings - long and slender, with calluses visible in places that suggested years of playing music. At least that part fit with what they were telling me. Reaching up, I found more bandages around my head, which explained the throbbing that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there.

“What happened to me?” I asked. “How did I end up here?”

Another loaded look passed between them.

“You were attacked,” Caleb said finally. “At the ranch. We found you by the old storage shed. Police are still investigating.”

“Who would want to attack me?”

“That's what we're trying to figure out.” Liam's hand tightened on his guitar case. “But don't worry about that right now, okay? Focus on getting better. We've got your back.”

I nodded, but my head was spinning with questions. Who would want to hurt me? What kind of life had I led that got me here? And what was that nagging feeling that I was forgetting something crucial?

The neurologist came back with more tests, more questions. When she was finally done, Caleb pulled something from his jacket pocket.

“They found this when they brought you in.” He handed me a phone in a battered case. “Thought you might want it back.”

The lock screen showed a sunset over what must have been their ranch - golden light painting the sky above a wooden fence and rolling pastures. It was a beautiful photo. Probably meant something to the person who took it. To me, it was just another piece of evidence that I was living someone else's life.

I stared at the keypad. Nothing. Whatever combination of numbers used to unlock this thing, they were lost in the void where my memories should have been.

“Try your birthday,” Liam suggested. Then, off my blank look, “Right. Sorry. Um, want me to...?”

“No.” I set the phone face-down on the blanket.

It felt too private somehow, letting them see how completely I had lost myself. Which was ridiculous, because apparently they knew more about me than I did right then.

Caleb cleared his throat. “Look, you were already staying at our place before... this happened. Guest house is still yours if you want it. Might be easier than trying to navigate your apartment alone right now.”

My first instinct was to say no. These guys seemed nice enough, but they were strangers. The rational thing would have been to get some space, try to sort myself out somewhere neutral. Maybe check into a hotel or...

With what money? What ID? For all I knew, my wallet was as empty as my memory.

I looked around the hospital room - antiseptic walls, monitors tracking vital signs I didn't know I had, that stupid generic artwork that was supposed to be soothing but just reminded you you weren't home. Wherever home was.

The doctor returned, flipping through her charts with practiced efficiency. "Right, about your release. I know you're eager to get out of here, but we need to take things slow. Memory recovery isn't a linear process."

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Caleb asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"Actually, yes." She turned to them both. "Show him photos, tell him stories about his life, but don't force it. The brain needs to heal at its own pace. Sometimes familiar places, sounds, or even smells can trigger memories. Music especially might help, given your background." She looked at me directly. "But don't get frustrated if things don't come back right away. Recovery isn't a race."

"And if nothing comes back?" I couldn't help asking.

"Then we deal with that too," she said kindly. "But let's take it one day at a time."

"Yeah," I heard myself say. "Okay. Thanks."

Liam's smile was relieved. Caleb squeezed my shoulder. They were trying so hard to make this okay, to be familiar when nothing else was. I should probably have been grateful.

Instead, I was terrified. Because somewhere out there was a life I had built, relationships I had formed, a whole history of choices and consequences leading to this moment. And right then, it all felt like a story someone had told me about a person I had never met.

After three weeks in the hospital, getting discharged shouldn't have felt like a celebrity meet-and-greet, but there we were. My bandages were gone, though the scars underneath still felt tender. The doctors had hoped my memories would return with time, but beyond vague impressions of music and a few disconnected fragments, my mind remained stubbornly blank.

Every few steps, someone else stopped us with a smile that faded into awkward concern when I didn't light up with recognition, even after all this time.

“Jimmy!” A nurse in blue scrubs hurried over, coffee cup in hand. “I was hoping to catch you before you left. You had us all worried, honey.”

She hugged me before I could dodge it. I stood there stiffly, trying not to breathe in her flowery perfume while shooting Liam a desperate look.

“He's still a bit fuzzy on things, Maria,” Liam explained gently.

“Oh!” She stepped back, coffee sloshing. “Right, they mentioned... but you always remember my night shift coffee orders, so I thought...”

“Sorry,” I offered, because what else could you say when someone was looking at you like you'd personally betrayed them by forgetting their existence?

It happened three more times before we made it to the lobby. An orderly asked about some band I had apparently recommended. A doctor reminisced about a charity event I had helped organize. An elderly man in a tweed jacket waved enthusiastically from his seat.

Caleb steered me toward the exit, his hand steady on my shoulder. “You okay?”

“Sure. Love disappointing strangers who know more about my life than I do. It's great fun. Highly recommend it.”

He snorted. “There's the sarcasm we know and love.”

“At least something survived the head trauma.”

The hospital parking lot gave way to tree-lined streets that were apparently my hometown. Liam took on tour guide duty from the passenger seat while Caleb drove.

“Sarah's Diner on the left - you always get the western omelet with extra peppers. They started adding it to the menu as 'Jimmy's Special' last year.”

Great. Even the breakfast food knew me better than I did.

“The Daily Grind up ahead - Katie still saves your usual morning coffee order. Dark roast, splash of cream, ungodly amount of sugar.”

I watched the coffee shop pass by, its cheerful green awning and window displays stirring no recognition.

“And that's The Watering Hole where you work - well, worked. Nina's been handling things while you've been...” Liam trailed off.

He didn’t have to finish that sentence cause I already knew what he was going to say.

The bar's neon sign glowed even in daylight. The Watering Hole. Such a simple name, but it made my head swim trying to connect it to any memories.

The light turned red, and suddenly there was a flash of red hair and rapid movement as someone rushed toward our car.

“Jimmy!” A woman with bright eyes and freckles tapped on the window. Caleb rolled it down, and her smile was like a punch to the gut - so genuine, so relieved, so familiar to everyone except me.

“Nina owns The Watering Hole,” Liam explained quickly. “She's-“

“One of your best friends,” she finished, then stopped. Her expression shifted as she really looked at me. “Something's wrong.”

It wasn't a question. Somehow that made it worse.

“He's having some memory issues,” Caleb said gently. “From the accident.”

“Issues?” I couldn't help the bitter laugh. “That's a fun way to say I don't remember anything. Or anyone. Sorry.”

The last word came out sharper than I meant it to. Nina flinched like I'd slapped her, then quickly tried to hide it behind a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

“Oh honey.” She reached through the window like she wanted to touch my shoulder, then thought better of it. “Your job's safe, okay? I've been handling things at the bar, and whenever you're ready-“ She caught herself, and I watched her physically adjust her approach in real time. “But no pressure at all. Just focus on getting better. That's all that matters.”

There it was again. That careful recalibration I was starting to recognize - people adjusting their expectations of me in real time, rewriting scripts that no longer worked, trying to connect with someone who was basically a stranger wearing their friend's face.

“Thanks,” I managed, because she was trying so hard to make this okay.

The light turned green. Nina stepped back, and I caught her reflection in the side mirror as we pulled away. She was still standing there, watching us go, and the look on her face made me want to crawl out of my own skin.

We passed a newspaper stand, and something caught my eye - a headline about a tech company’s new acquisition with a photo that triggered... something. Not a memory exactly, but a feeling. Like when you walked into a room and forgot what you came for, but the intention was still there, hovering just out of reach.

Before I could focus on it, Caleb was pointing out the window. “Look, they finally fixed that pothole by the library. You were complaining about that for months.”

The rest of the drive was a blur of landmarks that should have meant something but didn't. The local park where I apparently helped with summer concerts. The music store where I had “an account.” The community center where I taught piano lessons. Or had taught. Past tense? Present? What were you supposed to call things you didn't remember doing but might still be responsible for?

“Home sweet home,” Caleb announced as we turned onto a gravel road. The sign read “Rolling Hill Ranch” in weathered wooden letters.

I wanted to feel relieved. Or nervous. Or anything really. Instead, I just felt tired. Tired of pretending to care about places I didn't remember. Tired of apologizing for not being the Jimmy everyone knew. Tired of trying to piece together a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.

“You okay?” Liam asked softly as Caleb parked.

“Sure,” I lied again, because it was becoming a habit.

They exchanged another one of those looks - the ones that said they knew more than they were telling. But right then, I was too exhausted to care. One mystery at a time seemed like plenty.

Walking into the house felt like being handed someone else's life to try on. The space was bright and open, sunlight streaming through large windows that looked out over rolling pastures. Everyone kept calling it “my place,” but nothing there triggered even a flicker of recognition.

“Kitchen's stocked with your favorites,” Liam said, opening cabinets. “Peanut butter cups in the freezer, those weird pickle-flavored chips you like-“

“I like pickle chips?”

His hand froze on the cabinet door. “Right. Sorry. Want me to just make a list?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. He grabbed a notepad from a drawer (apparently I kept notepads in drawers) and started writing while I explored.

The bedroom was worse. Clothes in the closet that fit me perfectly but I didn't remember buying. Books on the nightstand with receipts marking places I didn't recall reading to. A guitar in the corner that Caleb eyed hopefully.

“Maybe you want to try? Music memory can be different from-“

“Not yet.” The words came out too quick, too sharp. “Just... not yet.”

Finally, they left me alone. I stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by evidence of a life I had supposedly built, feeling like the world's worst method actor who had forgotten to research his role.

Time to play detective in the mystery of my own existence.

The laptop on the desk was password protected, but Past Jimmy had helpfully left a sticky note with “MidnightMusic2024!” scrawled on it. At least one version of me had been practical about passwords. Though the fact that I needed a note to remember my own passwords was pretty on brand for my current situation.

The emails told a story of someone who actually had their life together. Booking confirmations for venues I'd never heard of. Negotiations with agents about performance fees. Calendar reminders for meetings that had come and gone without me. I was - had been? - apparently good at this. The spreadsheets were meticulous, the contracts carefully annotated.

But it was the photos that really got me.

There were hundreds of them, neatly organized in folders by date and event. Me at various music festivals, looking completely at home amid the chaos. Me at what must have been The Watering Hole, mid-laugh at some joke I'd never remember. Me with Liam on stage, with Caleb by the stables, with Nina behind the bar.

I clicked through them mechanically until one stopped me cold. It was from some old outdoor concert - I could see the stage lights in the background, the crowd a blur of motion. I was in the center, caught mid-laugh again, but something was off about the framing. There was an empty space next to me where someone should have been. No, not empty - cropped. You could just see the edge of an arm around my shoulders, but the person it belonged to had been carefully edited out.

My head throbbed as I stared at it. There was something there, just out of reach. Like a word on the tip of my tongue, but instead of a word it was an entire chunk of my life.

The next folder was locked. The password prompt stared at me accusingly when I tried to open it. I tried “MidnightMusic2024!” again but no luck. Whatever was in there, Past Jimmy had wanted it hidden. From himself? From someone else?

I closed the laptop before the headache got worse. The guitar caught my eye again - a beautiful instrument, clearly well-loved. My fingers itched to touch it, but I was scared. What if I couldn't remember how to play? What if I could and it triggered something I wasn't ready to handle?

The pickle chips mocked me from the kitchen counter. I grabbed the bag because hey, apparently I liked them. The first bite was a revelation - salty, tangy, weirdly addictive. At least Past Jimmy had good taste in snacks.

The guest house transformed in the darkness, familiar-yet-strange shapes casting shadows I couldn't interpret. Every sound became a mystery - was that creak normal? Did that tap in the pipes always happen? The wind through the trees sounded like whispered conversations I couldn't quite make out.

I drifted off eventually, exhaustion winning over anxiety, but sleep brought no peace.

The dreams came in fragments, like shards of broken glass catching light:

Piano keys under my fingers, playing a melody that felt like home, but I couldn't hold onto the notes.

The rich smell of coffee, expensive and familiar, mixed with something else - cologne maybe? It made my heart race but I didn't know why.

A smile appeared in the darkness - sharp and sweet all at once, green eyes crinkling at the corners. The ache it triggered in my chest was so sudden and intense that it startled me awake.

I bolted upright, gasping, my face wet with tears I didn't remember crying. My hands fumbled for the lamp, but by the time light flooded the room, the dreams were gone. Like trying to hold water, every detail slipped through my fingers until all I was left with was the echo of feelings I couldn't explain.

The digital clock read 3:47 AM. The numbers were red, glowing like the neon sign of that bar - The Watering Hole. At least that was one thing I could remember from today. One tiny piece of information that was actually mine.

“Jimmy Reed,” I whispered to the empty room, testing the shape of it on my tongue. “I'm Jimmy Reed.”

It sounded like a lie. Or maybe a wish. The silence offered no answers.

I kept talking anyway, because the sound of my own voice was better than the creaks and whispers of this strange house.

“I'm Jimmy Reed. I live in Oakwood Grove. I manage musicians. I like pickle-flavored chips.”

Each fact felt borrowed, like I was reciting lines from someone else's script. But what else did I have?

The green eyes from my dream flashed through my mind again, gone before I could grab onto the memory. My chest ached with that same inexplicable pain. There was something there - something important - but trying to focus on it was like staring at a solar eclipse. It hurt too much to look directly at it.

I gave up on sleep around dawn. The shadows retreated, taking their mysteries with them, but that hollow feeling in my chest remained. Outside my window, the sun rose over pastures I was told I knew well, painting the sky in colors that should have meant something.

They didn't. But I watched anyway, because right then watching the sunrise felt like the only real thing I could do.