Chapter 2: A Name Without a Face.

Michael sat by the window of the bus. The road moved slowly. Trees passed by. Houses passed by. Old memories passed by too. His hands held the cassette in his coat pocket. He touched it again and again. He did not want to lose it. It was small. But it had a voice. A voice that had woken something inside him.

The bus was half full. An old woman was knitting. A young boy played on his phone. The driver hummed an old song. It was quiet. But inside Michael’s heart, it was not quiet at all. He was thinking of Henry. He was thinking of Isabelle. He was thinking of the summer of 1978. He didn’t even remember what *he* was doing that year. But Henry must have been in love.

Michael looked out of the window. “Who were you, Isabelle?” he whispered. “And where are you now?”

He reached the nearby town, Willow Creek. It was the place where Henry had studied for two years. Maybe Isabelle was from there. Or maybe they met there. Michael stepped off the bus and looked around. The wind was cold. The streets were clean. There was a bakery at the corner. A small library across the road. An old lady fed birds on a bench. Everything felt slow. Quiet. Like it was waiting.

Michael walked to the library. The door made a small sound as he pushed it. Inside, it smelled like paper and time. Shelves were full of old books. A young woman sat behind the desk. She looked up and smiled.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” Michael said. “I’m looking for someone.”

The woman smiled again. “Aren’t we all?” she joked.

Michael smiled too. “Her name is Isabelle. I think she lived here. Maybe in 1978.”

The woman looked surprised. “That’s a long time ago.”

“I know,” Michael said. “She was… a friend of my brother’s.” He paused. “He’s gone now. But I found a tape. With her voice.”

The woman nodded slowly. “That sounds like a story.”

Michael looked down. “Yes. And I want to finish it.”

She walked to the back of the room and returned with a thick book. “Old records,” she said. “People who lived here. Maybe it helps.”

Michael sat down and opened the book. He turned page after page. So many names. So many faces. But none said Isabelle. Not the right one.

He closed the book slowly. “Maybe she didn’t live here. Maybe they just met here.”

The woman looked at him. “Do you know her last name?”

Michael shook his head. “No. Just Isabelle.”

She thought for a moment. Then she smiled. “There’s someone you should meet. Her name is Margaret. She used to teach music. She’s in her eighties now. But she remembers everyone. And everything.”

Michael’s eyes lit up. “Where can I find her?”

“She lives near the church. In a white house with blue windows.”

Michael thanked her and left the library. He walked slowly. The road turned quiet again. Leaves danced in the wind. The church bell rang once. He saw the white house. He knocked on the door.

After a moment, an old woman opened it. She wore glasses and a soft sweater. Her hair was white and tied back. She looked at Michael kindly.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Are you Margaret?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Michael. I’m looking for someone named Isabelle. She may have lived here in 1978.”

Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Isabelle? Isabelle from the music group?”

Michael’s heart jumped. “Maybe. I don’t know. She recorded a tape. A message. My brother had it.”

Margaret opened the door wider. “Come in.”

Michael sat on the couch. Margaret brought tea. The room was full of pictures and old music books.

“I remember her,” Margaret said. “She had a soft voice. Played piano beautifully. Wrote poems in her notebook. Yes, that was Isabelle.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

Margaret looked down. “No. She left one day. After someone broke her heart. I never saw her again.”

Michael felt something inside him twist. “That someone… was it Henry?”

Margaret looked up. “Your brother?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “He came here for some time. They spent many afternoons together. I thought they would marry.”

Michael held the cup tightly. “She waited at the train station… in the rain.”

Margaret’s eyes grew soft. “She came to me crying that day. Said he didn’t come. She never said more.”

Michael took out the tape. “This is her voice.”

Margaret touched it gently. “She was special. She loved deeply.”

“Do you know her last name?” Michael asked.

“Yes,” Margaret said. “Isabelle Greene.”

Michael sat still. A name. A full name.

He had something now. A real piece. A face without a picture. A voice with a name.

Margaret smiled. “There’s an old boarding house across town. She stayed there for two years. Maybe they remember her.”

Michael stood up. “Thank you. Truly.”

Margaret touched his hand. “Find her. She waited once. Maybe she still is.”

Michael walked out with a name in his heart. Isabelle Greene.