too sick to hold the guitar anymore, he gave it to Caleb. His own guitar. The big one, with a crack near the bottom that David had glued himself years ago, and his initials scratched inside the sound hole.
Caleb put it in the back of his closet the week after the funeral. I hadn’t heard him play it since.
Now, every night, those same few notes through the wall.
One night I got up and stood outside his door. The playing stopped instantly, like he could feel me there.
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