He hadn't just bought a guitar; he’d joined a partnership.

Leo took it home, and that night, he understood. When he practiced scales, the pegs would slip and groan. But when he closed his eyes and let his fingers wander into a funky, soulful groove, the wood seemed to warm up against his ribs. The bass didn't just follow his lead—it pushed him, demanding more rhythm, more grit, more life.

Leo found the ad on a Tuesday:

Leo plugged it into a tiny, buzzing amp. He struck the low E string, and the garage didn't just hear the sound—it felt it. The vibration traveled up Leo's arm and settled right in his chest. It wasn't just a note; it was a growl. "How much?" Leo asked, his pulse thumping. "Thirty bucks," Silas said. Leo blinked. "This is worth thousands."

"I can't play it anymore," Silas said, his fingers gnarled like oak roots. "And it’s a loud bird. It doesn’t like sitting still."