A cold winter morning led me to the attic of an old friend of Henry's. There, wrapped in a dusty cloth, was his cherished guitar. The strings, though silent now, once resonated with melodies of joy and sorrow.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.