“The Handkerchief” (Sequel Scene)

As Amanda walked toward the center of the park, the dusk had deepened. The lights around the fountain flickered to life, casting a golden haze over the trees. She clutched the handkerchief in her hand — Duncan's handkerchief — soft with use, with a delicate whisper of amber and musk. She held it like a keepsake. The orchestra had begun setting up under the arch of the bandstand. Amanda was introduced with polite applause — “guest soloist for tonight’s Concert at the Park…” — but she barely heard it. Her mind was still on the ledge. On Duncan. She sat at the grand piano, adjusted the bench, and let her fingers hover above the keys. The night air was gentle on her skin. Then she began to play. The first notes floated into the evening — a quiet, reflective sonata — tender and bittersweet. She had planned a different piece. But something stirred inside her as she remembered the quiet man at the ledge, with kind eyes and an oddly familiar smile. As her fingers moved across the keys, she glanced up — and there he was. Still leaning over the raised promenade, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other resting casually on the adobe wall. Watching her. Their eyes met for a moment. She smiled. Duncan didn’t move. He didn’t smile back — not because he didn’t want to, but because he suddenly felt too much. She was radiant, lost in the music, and it was like looking across a bridge to a time that never was. His throat tightened. He left before the final number. Amanda’s eyes darted back to the ledge after every piece. But by the time she finished her final piece — Ennio Morricone's Love Affair, soft and longing — the ledge was empty. When the applause came, she stood and bowed. But her eyes still searched. She ran backstage quickly, grabbing her bag, waving off the organizers. “I’ll be back,” she said breathlessly. She slipped past the arches and headed straight to the park gate, heart pounding, the handkerchief still in her hand. Then she saw it — a motorcycle turning the corner at the far end of the street. Duncan. His hair tousled by the wind, his jacket fluttering slightly. He didn’t look back. Amanda froze. She wanted to call out, to run — but something held her in place. Maybe it was disbelief. Maybe it was the weight of the moment. Or maybe — just maybe — it wasn’t time yet. The motorcycle disappeared into the night. Amanda stood at the gate, wind whispering around her, hand still clutching the handkerchief. She looked down at it, smiled to herself, and folded it gently into her bag. The music still echoed behind her. But the song — the one meant for him — had already been played.