Dios mío…
Where do I even start?
“My memories…they’re fragmented,” she says, voice rough with frustration. “Just out of reach. Every time I try to grab one, they slip away. And the harder I try, the more my head pounds.” Her fingers press to her temple. “I can’t even picture my mom’s smile.”
Her eyes lift to mine, wide and aching. “It’s like I’ve woken up in a different reality, and I don’t know who I am…or where I’m supposed to be.”
Then, softer, almost ashamed: “But your voice…” She exhales. “It’s familiar. Deeper than I remember. But grounding. Soothing.”
I shove my hands into my pockets to keep her from seeing them shake.
“You want me to tell you about Braden?” I ask, voice thick.
She nods. “Please.”
So, I take a breath. I gather up every memory I have of her twin brother—the boy who was my best friend, her other half. The boy we both loved and lost.
And because she asked—because I’ll do anything for her—
I begin.
“Braden loved his guitar,” I start, my voice quiet—drawn from a place inside me that still stings. “Loved cars, too. Especially that Dodge Charger we built together from scratch. He worshipped that thing. And of course…” I pause, catching her gaze. “He loved you most of all.”
Mac’s lips twitch into a shadow of a smile, but it falters at the corners, fragile as glass. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, storm clouds building just beneath the surface.
I exhale slowly, like I can ease the ache from my chest. “We cycled through a few band names, played with a bunch of different lineups. Braden and I both played guitar—some school friends joined for a while, but it didn’t stick. Too much drama. Too many egos. You know how it goes.”
She nods faintly, her fingers curling around the edge of the blanket like it’s her lifeline.
“But then we found them—the ones who fit. Chace. Sam. Trey. We weren’t polished. Hell, we weren’t even that good yet. But something clicked.” I smile, the memory warming something cold in me. “And Braden… he named us. Burnt Ashes.”
Her head tilts. “Sounds dramatic.”
I chuckle softly. “We were seventeen and thought we were poets. Braden liked the imagery—rising from ruin. Destruction into rebirth. It meant something to him. Still does to me.”
She’s watching me like I’m an anchor she doesn’t know how to hold onto, her eyes searching mine, desperate for something to grasp. Something to remember.
“One night, just after Christmas, everything changed. Big show. Right crowd. Right scout. We were kids with dreams and suddenly, it wasn’t just a dream anymore. With Phil—our pit bull of a manager—we held on. Even after…”
I stop.
Even after he was gone.
My jaw clenches. I don’t say it. I won’t drag her through that moment just yet.
Instead, I look at her—really look—and say, “We made it, Mac. He made it. Braden had this vision, and he dragged the rest of us—Sam, Chace, Trey and me—right along for the ride.”
Mac sits up a little straighter, wiping beneath her eyes with the back of her hand. The war inside her plays across her face—grief and awe colliding with the agony of forgetting.
“I was happy just playing,” I admit, watching her close. “Didn’t matter if it was ten people or ten thousand. Music is music. Even the sugary pop garbage you used to blast at full volume had its moments—if it had rhythm and heart, I respected it.”
That earns me a small smile—crooked, dazed, lost. “Do you… want to take a break or something?” she asks, voice trembling.
I shake my head. “Only if you want to. I just don’t want to overwhelm you, angel.”
“You’re not,” she says quickly. “I’m good. I just… I’m trying to picture it. To force a memory, but… nothing.”
“Okay.” I nod, brushing my knuckles against hers. “Just so long as you’re sure.”
