Part 1: Max
Kurleigh, to most people, seemed like a blanket covering the sun, with its rays peeking through small holes in the clouds. Today, with a throbbing headache, I was grateful for the thick cloud cover. I stepped forward and kicked the tequila bottle next to my foot; luckily, it didn’t break. With the purple painting under every cloud, I could tell that dawn had arrived, and all I wanted to do was crawl home and into my bed where I could hide under my own blanket. The route back from the bar was familiar: a right turn followed by another right turn at the bowling alley. However, on that day, a distant hum caught my attention. In the distance, I could make out the silhouette of Madame Cantrelle’s fortune-telling parlor. It reminded me of the night when I accidentally spilled whiskey on her while she was outside the bar.
“Stains can be washed away, like wrong notes on a page,” she had said to me as she brushed off my lack of equilibrium. Her words floated around in my head as if I were trapped in some kind of crystal ball, and I clutched my bottle of tequila. Maybe there was some truth to her metaphor of music and mistakes.
Every breeze brought a new sensation to me, like a fresh melody on the wind. Dad was writing a new aria at the piano, sunshine pouring on his hands like a touch from Midas himself. I followed the hum of the wind current as I turned my head to the left once more, and this time I saw the Big Big Tree. The melodies floating in the air mingled with Madame Cantrelle’s advice on finding the right notes in life.
As I approached the path to the Big Big Tree, a mixture of curiosity and fear gripped me. I could feel my heart beating in my ears. Was the music I pursued merely a product of my imagination? I stood at the entrance, torn between uncertainty and anticipation.
With every beat of my heart, the melodies grew louder, mingling with my inner turmoil. Maybe amidst life’s chaos, I could find a precious balance to treasure. That’s all I wanted—to find a sense of peace in the crazy symphony that life now seemed to be, a constant repetition of Mozart’s “Requiem.”
As I gazed down the rocky brown path, Madame Cantrelle appeared from behind the nearest tree, her eyes sparkling with unknown wisdom.
“Ah, Max,” she greeted me, her voice sounding like wind chimes in a gentle breeze.
I looked down, unable to meet her gaze directly, feeling a mix of emotions. When I looked up again, she was about a half-meter away from me, still staring into my soul. “Madame Cantrelle, what are you doing here? I thought you were at home. In this town, no one wakes up this early.”
As I spoke these words, she seemed to float closer and closer to me.
She smiled softly and said, “Time is how we perceive it; the stars persist, even unseen, as a reminder of eternity. Sometimes, when we learn to stop ‘using the wrong notes,’ we can make the best melodies.” She glanced at the tequila bottle in my hand, which I was clutching tightly to my chest.
“The notes of your life may seem scattered now, Max, but soon you will find the right ones. No piece of music is ever perfect the first time; it needs revisions. To find the notes that play the best score for your life, you must first embrace the dissonance and learn from its lessons. Only then can you find the perfect harmony.”
So, I closed my eyes. Although I had one foot in this world and the other in the chaos of my mind, I placed one foot on the brown sand without thinking. Immediately the heartbeat in my ears seemed to fade to a small echo, so I opened my eyes and kept walking.
Part 2: The Girl in the Tree
The wind whipped around Max’s face as he approached the Big Big Tree, leaves swirling around his head as if he were walking through a spell. The uneasy path filled him with a sense of panic, but curiosity still grew within him. Max let the melodies in the wind lead him to a small clearing where he caught sight of the Big Big Tree, its branches almost forming a screen for whoever stood beneath it. At the top of the highest branch, he could see a girl, and he knew that the humming was coming from her. Her whole body flowed with a sweet and gentle harmony, and she sang to a small, black bird to her right as they watched the approaching dawn.
As Max walked on, a branch cracked under his foot, and the loud crack made the girl stop mid-hum. She looked around and found no one. It was only when the bird made a little peep in the direction of where Max was standing that she turned and looked at him from below. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity until the little bird chirped again.
Finally, the girl spoke: “Hi there, this is Beatle.” She smiled at the bird, then turned back to Max, “I’m Lyra.”
Max stood still, stared up at Lyra and slowly began to smile. Beatle let out a small but loud cry that finally snapped Max out of his stupor. He stumbled back a little but managed to grab hold of the nearest tree.
“Yeah, uh, I’m, uh, Max.”
Lyra smiled and said, “Well, Max, would you like to come up? You’re just in time for sunrise,” she said, waving towards the horizon.
Max looked behind him at the path that led to Kurleigh, then in front of him at the purple dawn. He climbed the Big Big Tree until he reached Lyra and sat down to her left. Lyra looked at Max, but he was too scared to look in her direction; being so close to her made his chest tighten like a crushed water bottle.
“So, Max, what brings you to my Big Big Tree?”
“Your Big Big Tree?” Max inquired, looking astonished. “I didn’t know the trees in this town were property, or I would have invested by now.”
Lyra smirked, saying, “Well, no, they’re definitely not owned; I just say that because this is Beatle’s home, and wherever he goes, I go.”
“Is that right?” Max asks Lyra with a sideways grin. It must be quite pleasant. “It’s liberating to soar to any destination you desire. I didn’t think anyone could fly in this town. This place evokes more of a prison where people retreat after trimming their wings.”
As he spoke to Lyra, he looked down at his hands. When Max got nervous, he tended to poke at the center of his hands, like a little reminder that he was still there.
Lyra cast a sorrowful glance at Max before turning her gaze back to Beatle, who was standing to her right. The adorable black bird stood by her side, singing her songs and keeping her happy.
“When I moved here, I didn’t think Kurleigh was the best thing either. I felt trapped—a lot. It felt as though the trees and mountains were there to confine me. I couldn’t see the sky through all this ridiculous fog,” Lyra scoffs, “but then one morning I heard a song and followed it.”
“Let me guess.” Max pointed to Beatle, who was squatting on Lyra’s lap.
“No, actually, it was so foggy that morning that I walked right into Madame Cantrelle.”
Max looked at Lyra in disbelief.
“I know, I was just as much in shock as you are. But she didn’t scare me; you could say she hypnotized me. She knew I was following the song’s sound, and she told me that she had done so before. Then she pointed me in the direction of the Big Big Tree, which I followed until I found Beatle. He was singing up on a branch, just like you found me.”
For a moment, Max thought this could not be true. How could this mysterious girl have experienced a similar encounter with Madame Cantrelle? How could she have felt trapped by Kurleigh too? And just the thought of being trapped made Max’s airways tighten, forcing him to take a deep breath to slow his heartbeat.
Suddenly, Max became tight-lipped and said, “Yeah, well, not everything can be solved with a song.” Max’s mouth contorts into a line after he speaks.
Lyra looks at him in confusion and takes Beatle in her hands, fearing what Max would say next.
Max mocks, “This place is nothing. Brown walls, so oppressive, ensnare you, making you feel imprisoned in a void. This town traps you in cycles of despair and endings. Work, home, bar, work, home, bar. There is no music playing in the streets. The bowling alley is a joke! The individual who owns the bowling alley is likely just as old as the building itself. This diner serves food that is likely to send you to an early grave. Your job will likely provide you with a suitable plot of land for a coffin.”
Max was unaware that he had shouted these things just inches away from Lyra.
Max began to pant. He could hear the blood pulsing in his ears, and tears came to his eyes. He turned to his right to see Lyra holding Beatle tightly to her chest and staring at Max with a sorrowful expression. Beatle let out a small chirp, and when he did, Max softened a little. Lyra only then realized that tears were streaming down his face.
Without thinking, Lyra took her left hand from Beatle and grabbed Max’s hand
Calmness and peace overcame Max the moment their hands touched, and for the first time in a long time, he felt safe to cry.
“My dad,” Max swallowed, “loved music and played all sorts of things at home. He could play anything you’d imagine on the piano, but he just loved music. When he died last year, it seemed like the world stopped making music. I could hear nothing—no melodies or harmonies, no notes—not even my mother wishing me a happy birthday. I sit at that same piano, poking its keys all day, but I don’t hear the music. This stupid town has broken it, and now that’s all I seem to feel.”
After a moment of silence, Beatle leaped out of Lyra’s hand and departed.
Lyra glanced at Beatle, smiled, and then turned her gaze back towards Max.
“Max, the brown walls that surround us may seem formidable, but they also frame the sky, making it a canvas for infinite possibilities. Just as the birds find music in the twilight, or as your father found harmonies in your home, Kurleigh can offer you a melody. You just have to find the right notes yourself; it’s your way. Kurleigh isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t have to be. Living with expectations of how something should be distracts from what it is, and Kurleigh is just a little hole in the wall that needs some sunshine again.” As she spoke, she wiped a tear from Max’s cheek.
“Kurleigh needs life, and it comes from its people. Kurleigh needs people like you and me who are willing to listen to a song in the wind.”
The simplicity and depth of her words struck Max. For the first time in a long time, a glimmer of light penetrated the darkness of his mind.
He turned to her gratefully and asked, “How do we do this?”
Lyra smiled at him and said, “How about we start on Kurleigh’s festival day?”
The words swam in Max’s head like ocean currents. Had she just asked him out? His heartbeat reached his ears again, but the next gust of wind blew past him with another song.
“I’m in.”
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