Melodys Silence Pt 01

My name is Alexander Brooks, and I've been a ghost for six years

.

I didn't leave Boston--I cut my losses. Let them call it running. I call it self-preservation. Time doesn't heal. It just buries the pain where it can whisper back at you when you least expect it.

In Paris, I am no one. Not the scandal, not the villain, not the unfinished case. Just a man still learning how to disappear.

Ghosts don't rest. And the past? It doesn't knock--it kicks the door in.

I'm just a musician, a composer, the first trombone for the Orchestre de Paris. Music is the one thing that's never betrayed me. When I play, I don't have to explain myself. I don't have to convince anyone of my innocence. I just have to let the notes speak, and for a few fleeting moments, it's enough.

That doesn't mean I don't think about Boston. About Melody. About what could have been. I loved her--still love her in a way that makes it impossible to move on. But love doesn't mean much when the world decides you're guilty. Her parents, the public, even people who once called themselves my friends--they all made up their minds before the dust even settled. And maybe that's the hardest part, knowing that no matter what I say, no matter what I do, it will never be enough.

Paris lets me pretend. The music helps. But ghosts don't care about city lines. And maybe one day, the truth will come out. Maybe one day, I'll find out what really happened to Melody. Until then, all I have is the music.

The debate had gone on for nearly twenty minutes, and no one was backing down.

"Mais non!" Pierre scoffed, waving his cigarette in the air for emphasis. "Beethoven should never have considered naming the third symphony after Bonaparte. The man was a tyrant in waiting!"

Isabelle leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming with passion. "Tyrant or not, at the time, Napoleon symbolized the people! Beethoven admired him because he saw him as the embodiment of revolutionary ideals!"

I smirked, swirling the last of my espresso in its tiny cup. "The second Napoleon crowned himself, Beethoven ripped the title page to shreds. Guess he learned the hard way--put too much faith in a man, and he'll always let you down."

Arnaud, ever the dramatic one, clutched his chest. "Ah, but imagine if he hadn't changed it to 'Eroica.' Would the world have accepted such a blatant dedication to a man who crowned himself?"

Just as Isabelle opened her mouth to retort, the rumble of an approaching engine cut through the lively café chatter. A massive tour bus groaned to a stop not far from us, its doors hissing open. A flood of tourists began to spill onto the pavement, unmistakable even from a distance. Fanny packs, sneakers too white, baseball caps proudly declaring their city of origin--Americans.

I chuckled and leaned back in my chair. "C'est la saison touristique," I mused, watching the group fumble with maps and gesture wildly at the quaint market street ahead.

I was about to turn back to the conversation when movement near the bus froze me in place. Two figures emerged, blending in at first with the rest of the crowd. But as they stepped further into the light, my breath caught.

Beth and Scott.

For a second, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. The last time I saw Beth, she was in a Boston police station, grief sharpening into fury as she spat accusations in my face. Scott had said less, but his silence was damning enough. They believed I had taken their daughter from them. They would never stop believing it.

The tour group started moving toward the market, Beth and Scott trailing at the edges, looking around as if taking in the sights. My pulse kicked up. If they saw me, if they recognized me--

I pushed back from the table abruptly, mumbling something about needing air. My fellow musicians barely noticed, still tangled in their argument over Beethoven's artistic integrity. I slipped into the moving crowd, head down, heart pounding. I couldn't be here. Not now. Not with them.

I kept my head down, weaving through the market crowd as quickly as I could without drawing attention to myself. The lively hum of Rue Cler surrounded me--the scent of fresh baguettes, the calls of vendors advertising their cheese and wine, the occasional burst of laughter from café tables. But all of it blurred into the background, drowned out by the pounding of my heart.

Just a little further. Just around the next corner. Just out of sight.

Then, a sharp voice cut through the air.

"Alex?"

I flinched as if struck. My pace quickened, but it was too late.

"Alex!" Beth's voice cut through the market hum, her heels striking the cobblestones like gunshots.

I turned away, pushing past a couple examining a display of fresh fruit, nearly knocking over a small stand of flowers in my hurry. Behind me, Beth shouted again, her voice filled with something between fury and desperation.

Beth's voice cut through the air, raw and unrelenting. 'You killed her, and now you hide?'

I was already turning away, already calculating the fastest route to vanish. But then Scott said it--the word that burned like acid.

"Coward."

My breath stuttered. A flicker of something dangerous surged up my throat--anger, indignation, the urge to grab him by the collar and make him listen. But what would that do? What did it ever do?

Instead, I turned my back and walked away, the ghost they had always believed me to be.

I shoved forward, barely aware of where I was going--just that I had to get away. My flat wasn't far, just a few streets over. I could be there in minutes if I kept moving.

The shouts followed me, Beth calling my name, Scott hurling accusations. Faces in the crowd turned toward the commotion, but I didn't look back. I couldn't. My breath came in ragged gasps as I darted past a line of parked scooters, crossed the street without checking for traffic, and finally, finally, reached my building.

Fumbling with my keys, I yanked open the door and slipped inside, slamming it shut behind me. My hands were shaking as I locked it, one bolt, then two. Only when I was sure--absolutely sure--that no one had followed me did I slide down to the floor, my back pressing against the cool wood.

I was breathing hard, my chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. The apartment was silent, but in my head, Scott's voice still echoed, the word slamming into me over and over.

Coward.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the words away, but they clung to me, digging into the parts of me I tried so hard to bury. Six years, an ocean away, and I was still living in the wreckage of something I couldn't outrun.

I pressed my palms against my face, willing my breath to slow, but Scott's voice still echoed in my skull, his words a brand on my conscience. Coward. Murderer. The past had never left me. I had just convinced myself that an ocean between us meant something, that distance could rewrite history. But it didn't. It never would.

I exhaled, long and slow, and let my head fall back against the door. My mind, seeking refuge from the weight of the present, drifted to a different time--before all of this. Before Paris, before exile, before Melody disappeared. To the night I met her.

It was at a frat party, the kind I normally wouldn't have gone to if my friend hadn't dragged me along. The place was packed, music too loud, the scent of beer and cheap cologne thick in the air. I had just grabbed a drink when I saw her. She stood across the room, laughing with a few friends, the warm glow of the dim lighting catching in her brown hair. And then, as if she could feel my gaze, she looked up. Our eyes met, and for a moment, the party faded into a dull hum. She didn't look away. Neither did I.

I was never one to shy away from a moment like that. With a smirk, I made my way toward her, drink in hand, and struck up a conversation. She was sharp, quick-witted, and effortlessly charming. When she told me she was attending Harvard Law, I feigned being impressed, and she rolled her eyes at my teasing. I told her about Juilliard, about music, and for a while, it was just the two of us, talking like the rest of the party didn't exist.

By the end of the night, as people started filtering out, she smirked at me, tilting her head. "You know, when I first saw you, I thought you were just another guy trying to get into my pants."

I laughed, raising my hands in mock surrender. "Guilty as charged. But in my defense, I also really like talking to you."

She rolled her eyes but smiled, shaking her head as she pulled out her phone. We exchanged numbers, and as she turned to leave, she glanced back at me one last time, that same knowing smile on her lips. I stood there, watching her disappear into the night, feeling something I hadn't expected--something more than just attraction. It was the beginning of something real. I just didn't know then how much it would cost me.

Even with the miles between us, Melody and I never lost touch. What started as flirtation at a frat party quickly grew into something deeper. We texted constantly, called late into the night when our schedules allowed it. She would tell me about the long, grueling hours at Harvard Law, about professors who seemed determined to break her spirit, and I would listen, offering jokes and reassurance in equal measure. In turn, I told her about Juilliard, about my endless rehearsals and the pressure to be better, always better. The distance never seemed to matter. If anything, it made what we had stronger.

By the time I graduated, I knew there was no question--I wanted to be with her. I turned down opportunities in New York and instead took a job with the Boston Pops. It wasn't easy breaking into their ranks, but I worked my ass off, determined to earn my place. Melody was still in law school then, her days a blur of case studies and mock trials, but we made it work. It was during this time that I met her parents for the first time. Beth and Scott were polite but cautious, sizing me up like I was being cross-examined. Beth, especially, was protective of Melody, and I couldn't blame her. Over time, though, I think they saw how serious I was about her. How much I loved her.

Love. That was what it had turned into--not just a friendship, not just an infatuation, but something real, something neither of us could ignore. One night, after she had aced a brutal midterm, we went out to celebrate. The night was warm, and she was buzzing from victory and cheap champagne. Back at her place, she kissed me, slow and lingering, her fingers tracing the collar of my shirt before slipping beneath.

We made love that night, the first time feeling like an unspoken promise. The way she pulled me to her, the way our bodies moved together, like we had always belonged that way. It wasn't rushed or frantic but something deeper, something I felt in every brush of her hands, every sigh against my skin. When it was over, we lay tangled in her sheets, her head resting on my chest, our breaths slowing in time with each other. I remember pressing a kiss to her hair and whispering something--I don't even remember what, just that it made her smile against my skin before she drifted off to sleep.

Eventually, we moved in together. She was finishing law school, and I had just become the first trombone for the Boston Pops--one of the youngest to ever hold the position. Our careers were flourishing, and life felt like it was falling perfectly into place. I still remember the day she got the call--she had landed a job as a junior associate at one of the top law firms in Boston. She was ecstatic, practically vibrating with excitement as she jumped into my arms, laughing. That night, we celebrated with dinner, with music, with whispered dreams of the future.

And that future felt real--tangible--when I decided to propose. I had been planning it for months, secretly arranging everything with the The Pops' music director. A summer concert at Tanglewood, one of Melody's favorite places. I would take the stage, and in front of thousands, I would ask her to marry me. It was perfect. It was supposed to be perfect. But looking back now, I wonder if fate had already decided that perfection was never meant to last.

At first, I didn't think much of it. Stress, maybe. Melody's job at the firm was demanding, and she had always been the type to push herself past her limits. I told myself that the long hours and the exhaustion were just part of it. That she would come back to me, to us, when things settled. But then she started pulling away. Subtle at first--late nights at the office that turned into entire weekends, texts left on read, conversations that used to flow so easily now stilted, forced. I tried to get her to talk about it, to tell me what was wrong, but she would shake her head, offer some clipped excuse, and change the subject.

Then came the fights. They started out of nowhere, over nothing. A misplaced book, a forgotten errand, the way I left my shoes by the door instead of in the closet. But they escalated fast. One moment, we'd be talking, and the next, she'd be shouting, her face flushed with anger. I'd shout back, not understanding why this was happening, why everything that had once been so easy between us was suddenly crumbling. The fights grew worse, more frequent. Neighbors started complaining about the noise. I barely recognized us anymore.

Then came that Monday. A week after our worst fight yet. The silence between us had stretched so long that it felt suffocating. I was getting ready for rehearsal, going through the motions, pretending like things weren't unraveling. I leaned in to kiss her goodbye, the way I always did. But she turned her head. Wouldn't look at me. Wouldn't say a word. It was like I wasn't even there.

Something in my gut twisted as I left that morning, but I told myself it was just another bad day. That when I came home, we would talk. We would fix this.

But when I returned later that evening, the apartment was empty. The quiet felt different this time. Not the kind of quiet that meant she was just working late, but something heavier. Something wrong. Her shoes weren't by the door. Her coat wasn't hanging on the rack. I checked the bedroom--her side of the bed was untouched.

I cooked dinner anyway. One of her favorites. Some stupid part of me thought perhaps she would walk through that door. That we would sit down and eat, and I would finally get her to talk to me. But the food went cold. The apartment stayed empty. And Melody never came home.

The next morning, I woke up to the same silence that had followed me to bed. Melody's side of the bed was still untouched, the sheets cold. My stomach knotted as I reached for my phone and called her. Straight to voicemail. I called again. And again. Nothing.

Panic started creeping in, but I forced myself to stay rational. Maybe she just needed space. Maybe she had crashed at a friend's place. So I started calling--her coworkers, her friends, anyone who might know where she was. Each time, the answer was the same: they hadn't seen her. Hadn't heard from her. No one knew anything. That was when I knew something was really wrong.

By noon, I was sitting in a Boston PD precinct, filing a missing persons report. I explained everything to the officer at the desk--the fights, the silence, the way she had just vanished. He nodded, taking notes, but there was no urgency, no real concern. Maybe it was the way they looked at me, the practiced neutrality in their eyes. Adults leave all the time, I imagined them thinking. Girlfriends walk out. They handed me a case number, told me they'd look into it, and that was it.

Beth and Scott took it more seriously. When I called them, Beth's voice cracked the moment I told her Melody was missing. They drove in from their home outside the city that same day, sitting with me in my apartment, going through the same names, the same phone calls, the same dead ends. They didn't blame me--not yet. In those early days, we were on the same side, grasping at whatever slivers of hope we could find.

But as the days stretched into weeks, hope withered. The police did what they always did in cases like this--asked a few questions, followed up on a couple of leads, but nothing ever came of it. It became clear that unless a body turned up or Melody walked through the door on her own, they weren't going to do much.

I kept calling. I kept looking. I refused to believe she was just gone. But Beth--her grief turned to something else. To suspicion. To certainty. And then the questions started. The looks. The shift in her voice when she spoke to me. The same shift I heard in Scott's silence. I just didn't know it yet, but I was about to go from the man who loved their daughter to the man they were convinced had taken her away.

Beth and Scott turned to the media. At first, it made sense--they were desperate, just like I was. They wanted answers, wanted someone, anyone, to find Melody. Local news stations picked up the story first, airing her smiling photo with the headline Harvard Law Graduate Goes Missing in Boston. Beth and Scott gave interviews, pleading for help, for tips, for anyone who might have seen something. I even stood beside them once, numb, barely able to form words in front of the cameras. But then the story spread, and everything changed.

It wasn't long before social media got ahold of it. At first, it was just true crime blogs and amateur sleuths theorizing about what could have happened to her. But then the influencers came. They started spinning their own narratives, filling in the blanks with speculation. Maybe Melody had been murdered. Maybe she had been having an affair with someone at her law firm. Maybe her jealous fiancé had something to do with it. The theories caught fire, spreading like a disease. It didn't matter that I had no history of violence. It didn't matter that I had been searching for Melody just as desperately as anyone else. The only thing that mattered was that I was the last known person to see her.

And people ran with it. These so-called "investigators" started analyzing old photos, old social media posts, twisting every detail into something sinister. "Look at the way he holds her hand--possessive." "Did he seem controlling?" "Why isn't he more emotional in interviews?" Strangers who had never met me, never known Melody, were suddenly certain that I had killed her. The police, who had already been indifferent, now had their hands forced. The pressure was on. Why wasn't the fiancé being interrogated? Why wasn't he under arrest? The more the noise grew, the harder the police leaned on me.

I lost count of how many times they brought me in for questioning. Every time, it was the same--hours in a cold room, officers watching my every move, their questions circling back again and again. When was the last time you saw Melody? What did you argue about? Were you angry? I got a lawyer, not because I was guilty, but because I knew how this worked. The moment the world decided you were guilty, innocence stopped mattering. And still, they had nothing. No evidence. No body. Just a missing woman and a fiancé they could not prove had anything to do with it.

But it wasn't just the cops. Beth and Scott--who had once clung to me in their grief--started to pull away. Beth was the first to change, but it was Scott who shattered something inside me. I still remember the day, the exact words, the way his face looked when he finally asked: Did you do something to her?

That nearly broke me. I could have screamed. I could have cried. Instead, I just stared at him, feeling the ground shift beneath me. The man who had once welcomed me into his home, who had trusted me with his daughter's heart, now looked at me like I was a monster. And the world agreed. The pressure grew so unbearable that the Boston Pops suspended me. They phrased it carefully--a leave of absence--but we all knew what it meant. I was a liability. An accused man without an arrest, a stain they didn't want on their name. My career, my reputation, everything I had built, was slipping away. And Melody was still gone.