OR ONE NIGHT – PART II: “Echoes of 9C”
The story continues…
Claire hadn’t meant to return.
In the daylight, Positano looked nothing like the memory of last night — it was too bright, too loud, too full of tourists and questions. But something about that suite, about him, about her in that room — wouldn’t leave her.
So instead of flying back to Lisbon like she’d told her sister she would, she booked one more night. Then another.
But 9C was no longer available.
The receptionist — a girl with soft curls and an apologetic smile — told her it had been reserved for a private guest, “a week at least.” Claire tried not to show disappointment, but inside her chest, something curled in frustration. She hadn’t expected him to still be there.
But maybe, just maybe, she’d expected to feel something. Closure. A chance to thank him. To ask what that unfinished line of music meant.
She spent her second night in 7F. It was smaller, darker. She didn’t open the windows. She tried to forget.
But the next morning, on her breakfast tray — tucked between the linen napkin and the silver spoon — was a folded page.
A single bar of sheet music.
The same key. The same hand.
A note beneath:
“You’re not lost. You’re just not done yet.”
She stared at it for a long time.
He knew she’d stayed. Or someone had told him. Or — he was still watching. And instead of fear, she felt adrenaline.
Not the dangerous kind. The thrilling kind. Like stepping into a mystery that was choosing her.
She followed the trail.
Over the next two days, Claire began to find him again — not in person, but in signs.
- A matchbook from a jazz bar in Naples, placed under her espresso at a café she hadn’t meant to stop at.
- A hotel concierge who handed her a note when she checked out: “Porto. Two nights. Ask for Room 6E.”
Every time she followed the path, she arrived a step too late.
But every time, there was something left behind:
- A scribbled quote from a novel she once loved but never told anyone about.
- A photo of a moonlit street where she once kissed someone and thought it was love.
He knew things.
Things she hadn’t said aloud in years.
It was in Porto, on the third night, that she heard the music.
She had followed the final note to a rooftop bar — quiet, elegant, nearly empty. A pianist played in the corner, back to the crowd, lit only by a single overhead bulb.
The moment she stepped onto the terrace, her heart skipped.
The melody was hers.
The same unfinished line.
Now fuller. Wilder.
He didn’t turn to her, not immediately.
He just kept playing — each note a thread pulling her closer.
She sat near the piano. Waited. Listened.
And when he finally looked over his shoulder and smiled — not the way strangers smile, but the way only someone who’s been waiting does — she knew.
This wasn’t over.
To Be Continued…
In another room.
In another city.
But maybe — finally — in the same moment.