Page 146 of Love at First Fright

“Can you play it for me? Please? If your fingers aren’t too sore from the digging?”

“The guitar?” He sighed. “I’ve never really been one for performing… I used to almost throw up on open mic nights when my mates forced me up there.”

Puppy-dog eyes, activated. “Please? It’s only me here, and you know I already think you’re amazing. I really think it might help me remember.”

I couldn’t bear to touch the thing myself. Every time I’d tried over the years, the weight of it in my hands made me want to scream. It reminded me of everything I’d lost, everything that had been ripped away before I could properly live it.

Charlie’s eyes flashed wide, but he nodded. “Okay…”

He untangled himself from me to unzip the case, and lifted the acoustic guitar, testing the strings with gentle fingers.

“Play what you played in the attic.”

A small smile crossed his face. “That crap? I’m not even sure I remember it fully. I wrote that one myself, back when I first learnt the guitar.”

“It was excellent,” I said, reaching over to stroke my thumb across his cheek. “That song will haunt me forever.”

Charlie positioned his fingers. The melody emerged slowly, somehow achingly familiar. Something melancholic and raw, full of teenage longing and loss. His fingers clearly remembered the patterns even if his mind doubted himself. The notes flowed like water, filling the dusty room with ghosts of who he’d been.

I listened, transfixed by his magnificent music, but no new memories surfaced. Only a deep sense of nostalgia for something I couldn’t quite grasp.

When the last chord faded, I found myself studying Charlie’s fingers. Something tugged at the edge of my consciousness—a melody that wanted to be played, a progression that felt essential.

“Can you play ‘Wonderwall’?”

Charlie blinked. “Oasis? Really?” He wrinkled his nose. “Is that a joke?”

“Please?”

Sighing, he repositioned his hands, fumbling through the opening chords. Started again, missed a note, cursed under his breath. “I don’t think I’ve played this one since my friend’s wedding, like a decade ago.”

“You can do it,” I said, drifting closer. “I believe in you.”

Charlie’s cheeks flushed pink as he nodded and tried again. This time his fingers found their rhythm. The familiar progression emerged, tentative at first, then stronger. The melody soon filled the room. I was tempted to ask him to sing it for the full effect, but didn’t want to push my luck. Besides, it was working—each chord change sparked something inside me, like static electricity building before a storm.

I moved to the bed, sitting heavily as the music washed over me. Closed my eyes. Let the sound guide me backwards through the fog.

The room shifted around me.

I was in this manor. In the piano room. Sunlight streaming through tall windows.

My fingers moved across the guitar strings, demonstrating the opening progression. Wonderwall, because it was simple enough for a beginner but satisfying to master.

“Right, so it’s Em, G, D, A7,” I explained, passing the instrument to Michael.

He sat in his wheelchair beside the piano bench, copper hair catching the light. His hands shook slightly as he positioned his fingers on the frets. The first chord came out muted, his grip too tentative.

“Don’t worry,” I said, scooting closer. “Everyone murders it the first few times.”

Michael smiled—that shy, crooked grin that made my stomach flip. Then he winked. “You’re very patient for someone who charges by the hour.”

How long had I been giving him lessons? Weeks, months maybe? Long enough that our sessions had become the highlight of my week. Long enough that I’d started arriving early and staying late, finding excuses to linger.

I remembered the advert in the Bristol Evening Post’s jobs section. “Guitar tutor wanted for adult learner. Grimthorne Manor, Wiltshire. Good rates.” I’d driven out on a whim, desperate for anything that paid better than the record shop.

Michael’s parents had been formal, but kind. Explained their son had been a professional rock climber until an accident eighteen months prior. Spinal injury. He’d moved back home whilst he adjusted, but depression had settled over him like a cloud. They were trying everything—art therapy, books, music.

“He used to be so vibrant,” his mother had said, wringing her hands. “We just want to see him smile again.”