But today was different. Today was your mom's birthday.

You'd found the acoustic in the corner of her closet, wedged between winter coats and a box of Christmas ornaments. The strings were rusted, the neck warped from years of neglect. It was the same guitar she'd played to you every night before bed. The same one she'd sang "Dream a Little Dream of Me" into until your eyelids got heavy.

And now it sat on a milk crate in the middle of the garage, waiting for you.

You hadn't told anyone where you were going. You'd just grabbed the guitar, slipped out the back door, and pulled the garage door down behind you. The only light came from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, swinging slightly in the draft.

The garage was cold. The concrete floor felt like ice through your shoes. And yet, something felt warm. Almost like a presence.

You knew it was stupid. You knew it wasn't real. You knew grief made people see and hear things that weren't there.

But as you sat down on the crate and placed your fingers on the strings, you couldn't help but whisper to the empty space.