THE YING AND THE YANG

Lightning illuminated my face, jolting me from a dream that instantly dissolved   into the realms of my subconscious leaving nothing  but a whisper of fear. 

Thunder whipped through the night sky, battling with the heavy rain that lashed hard against the bedroom windows. Taking a long deep breath I inhaled the faint aroma of lavender

“Sleepwalking again, I see,” I muttered wishing   the words  would become lost in the storm’s symphony then I wouldn’t have to deal with their impact

“At least wake up for a mug of  hot chocolate... or anything chocolate-related.” I groaned, slumping onto the edge of my late grandmother’s bed ignoring the boxes that needed filling up.

George had insisted that he would help me clear out her belongings but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

His Aunt Betty was a part of my grandmother’s entertainment troop. She played piano and by all accounts was quite the male impersonator.

 My trembling hands cupped her silver music box as I recalled sitting on the piano, my tiny legs dangling over the side. I could almost hear my grandmother humming happily, stitching sequins onto my alarmingly accurate costume. Why did I have to grow up so damn quickly? Puberty had been a minefield of hormones and mood swings 

" One day - You will find the Ying to your Yang," My grandmother’s voice was clear and comforting against my usual  loud slamming down the phone, storming off to my room and sobbing into pillow performance. “How do you think I met your grandfather?” She sat on the edge of my bed. “His plane crashed near the cattle shed, and I helped your great grandmother nurse him back to health. Funny thing your great grandfather and great uncle Bert couldn't find his plane with any documentation or insignia. My great uncle thought your grandfather was some sort of undercover spy and these things had been removed for national security. Your great grandfather thought the land had claimed it back. Do you know on our wedding day, your grandfather gave me his only possession—this music box. He told me its power. It led him to me and one day at the right time the box will take you exactly where you need to be”

Turning it over in my hands, I sighed. The weight of memory pressed against my chest, and before I knew it, a stubborn tear slipped down my cheek.

As a child, I’d watched her wind up the music box, curlers in her hair, claiming it held magical powers. “Close your eyes,” she’d whisper with a knowing smile, “Make a wish. “  As the melody played, her vivid stories would unfold: towering castles with kings and queens, lords and ladies weaving secrets, and Border Reivers lurking in the mist. I thought they were mere bedtime tales, but now, with the music box nestled in my palms, they felt tangible—alive.

I wound the key, half-hoping its mechanism would stir something within me.

The familiar chime filled the room. For a brief moment, everything paused—the ticking clock, the raging storm. And then, the world shifted.

The bed beneath me was gone. My clothes, too. In their place, I wore ripped jeans, a leather jacket, and a shirt that screamed punk rebellion. The smoky air and thrum of bass told me I was in a bar, packed with leather-clad strangers.

It was 1977. The Broken Palace—a forgotten haunt of the punk rock scene. My heart raced as I tried to make sense of the impossible.

“What stage of grief is this supposed to be?” I muttered, my voice swallowed by the chaos around me.

I was about to bolt when the lights dimmed, and Alex Zander stormed the stage bounding around like a hyper active gazelle. The crowd roared as he led his band The In Zanies with his raw, electric energy. This wasn’t the Alex Zander rediscovered by internet sleuths during lockdown—the one whose disappearance from his home baffled the world.

This Alex Zander was very much alive and so goddamn beautiful.His leather trousers clung to every inch of his athletic frame, his jet-black curls falling across smoldering blue eyes. The room hung on his every word.

As the band played the faint glow from the music box began pulsing in time with the beat. The melody seemed to shift, weaving into the song onstage like it belonged there, like it was calling to something—or someone. I pressed it closer to my chest, but it was too late. Alex’s gaze locked onto mine, sharp and unrelenting. It was almost as if he had sensed the music box but that was impossible

Suddenly he leapt off the stage and made a beeline for me. My breath hitched as he grabbed my hand, his warmth sending a jolt through me. He leaned closer, his voice a mix of grit and seduction. Then, with a devilish grin, he back flipped onto the stage.

There was something about him that went past the usual rockstar allure; something deeper—primal, magnetic, undeniable. Was distraction also part of the grieving process? 

The music box shimmered again and the smell of lavender filled my nostrils

.

 The box lay cold and still in my lap, its glow completely gone, as if it had never been there at all. My heart was still racing, my mind swimming with the sound of bass and the memory of Alex’s electric gaze. What was this thing? 

My grandmother’s voice echoed in my mind: “It will take you exactly where you need to be.”

“Okay, I get it,” I whispered to the empty room even though I didn’t not yet.

 Over the following weeks despite what I told myself I found myself giving in to the temptation, spinning the key and letting the melody transport me.

Each time,  there was a fleeting moment—a shared glance. Then  a stolen kiss but all too soon the music box would shimmer and that familiar smell of lavender would bring me back home

Denial," I whispered as the radio burst out that his latest single had just missed out on the number one spot on the music charts. “This is obviously Denial.”

"Anger," I muttered another time, watching Alex glare at a bandmate's onstage behaviour.

Over time grief  became something quieter, almost, manageable and I began to socialise more and  convinced myself I’d stop using the music box when me and George were  officially a couple.  He was  the Ying to my Yang so why did I put my engagement ring on the bedside table?

The smell of lavender was overbearing. I had to pick up the music box again.

That familiar tune played, and the room shifted once more.

This time, I materialized in a warm kitchen. The aroma of coffee hung in the air. Alex Zander sat cross-legged on a small sofa, papers scattered in front of him.

This was the day he disappeared. What was this? Shock therapy? Or punishment for choosing George? 

My pulse quickened. As Alex started, closing the distance between us. In seconds his arms wrapped around me, and his voice trembled with relief.

“So it finally brought you here,” he murmured.

“I don’t understand…” I stammered, my words swallowed as his lips crashed against mine. The intensity between us was overwhelming, a release of something that had been building for far too long.

The music box fell to the floor, shattering into small constellations , amplifying the sensations between us.

As he lifted me, silk sheets materialized beneath us, and we surrendered to the pull of fate.

When I caught my breath, I glanced at the music box. It was whole again, perched smugly on the bedside table.The warm air wrapped around me, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of lavender. It wasn’t faint this time—it was everywhere, rich and alive, like my grandmother’s soft Goodnight kiss upon my forehead. Suddenly , the ache in my chest loosened, and a quiet certainty settled over me. The music box had done exactly what it was meant to do