[Daughter!]

Finished...for now.

Spoiler:

Even with just three fingers he frets every note like his hand was fluid, gliding up and down damp nylon strings, vibrating notes so they weep for him. It’s enough to warp molten glass, enough to make even himself cringe. With one turn of the hand, his instrument screams through its cracking wood.

A telephone sits on a small, dirty table, one that most people would use to rest their feet on, but not him. He knows its special and wants to save it, even the gash on its corner bleeding roaches. He savors it, leaning backward, the sound of his wooden chair creaking all night.