Page 28 of Shattered Melodies

“Boss playing hooky again?” Leo asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Dean chimed in, “Careful, Caleb. You keep this up, and we might stage a coup.”

I laughed, grateful for their easy banter. “You two couldn’t run this place if I handed you the keys and a user manual.”

“Ouch,” Dean clutched his chest in mock pain. “You wound us, boss.”

Hank shook his head, but I could see the amusement in his eyes. “Alright, you jokers. Don’t you have work to do?”

As Leo and Dean shuffled off, still chuckling, Hank turned back to me. His expression softened a bit. “You know, it’s good to hear you laugh like that again, kid. Been a while.”

I felt a twinge in my chest, knowing he was right. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m finally starting to feel like myself again.”

Hank nodded, his eyes knowing. “That song you were playing. It’s about him, isn’t it? That boy from back in the day?”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Am I that transparent?”

“Only to those who know you,” Hank said gently. “Listen, Caleb. I know you’ve been through a lot, and I know it’s not easy to let go of the people we love. But at some point, you’ve got to start living for yourself again.”

The truth of his words sank into my bones. He was right, I knew he was. But the thought of letting go, of moving on. It was terrifying.

“I’m trying,” I said softly. “It’s just not as easy as I thought it would be.”

Hank squeezed my shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “Nothing worth doing ever is, kid. But you’ve got a whole lot of folks here who love you and want to see you happy. Me, your parents, those two knuckleheads out there…” He jerked his thumb towards where Mark and Dean had disappeared. “We’re all here for you, no matter what.”

I felt a rush of warmth at his words. “Thanks, Hank. That means a lot.”

He grinned, giving me one last pat on the back before stepping away. “Anytime, kid. Now, what do you say we talk business for a bit? I’ve got some updates on the horses that I think you’re gonna want to hear.”

We spent the next hour going over ranch business, the familiar routine grounding me. As we finished up, the radio in the corner crackled to life.

“And now, we’ve got a special request from one of our listeners. Here’s a song by the rising star, Corey King.”

I felt a sudden rush of excitement at the mention of Corey’s name. I had been a fan of his music for years now, drawn to his haunting melodies and soulful voice.

Hank raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Corey King, huh? Didn’t peg you for a fan of the pop scene.”

I felt my cheeks heat up. “It’s not like that. I like his music, that’s all. It speaks to me, you know?”

As the song played on, I found myself getting lost in the melody. But this time, instead of being transported to the past, I found myself thinking about the future. About the ranch, about the music I wanted to create, about the life I wanted to build for myself.

When the song ended, Hank clapped me on the shoulder. “You’ve got good taste in music, kid. But don’t let it distract you from the work at hand.”

I nodded, feeling a newfound sense of determination. “No worries, boss. I’m on it.”

As Hank left, I picked up my guitar again. But this time, instead of playing an old, familiar tune, I found myself experimenting with something new. Something that spoke of hope, of possibility, of a future yet to be written.

And as the notes filled the air, I felt something shift inside me. Some long-dormant part of my heart coming back to life. It wasn’t about forgetting the past, I realized. It was about using it to build something new, something beautiful.

I let myself play for a while, losing track of time as the music flowed through me. It felt good, like stretching a muscle I’d forgotten I had.

As the last notes faded away, I realized the sun had fully set, the barn illuminated only by the soft glow of the overhead light. With a sigh, I set the guitar back in its stand.

“Thanks for the audience, buddy,” I said to Drumstick, giving him one last pat before heading out.

The screen door creaked as I stepped onto the porch, the familiar sound grounding me in the present. The warm glow of the kitchen light spilled out, mixing with the fading sunset. The scent of Mom’s famous pot roast mingled with the crisp evening air, making my stomach growl in anticipation.

Mom was at the stove, her back to me as she stirred something in a pot. Her hair, once thinned by chemo, had grown back fully now, though it was more salt than pepper these days.

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