The last time he had touched those strings had been a long time ago. Years had gone by in a blur, days spent roping and cattle wrangling, nights spent with bottle after bottle of whiskey that made his chest burn to get rid of the ache inside of it. He wasted away like that, the cowboy in the rodeo no one wanted to see, spending his money on booze and women to help him forget a face he knew he never could.

He stared at the guitar, the wood covered in dust and an empty bottle sitting on it. He would always change the strings and tune it when need be, but when he sat down and held his fingers over the familiar chords, no sound would come out. Nothing he could hear anymore, anyways. He was lost in himself, and the longer he went on, the more he forgot about the present and remembered the good of the past: the hood of that old truck, the creaking of the old covered bridge, the cloudless sky, the warm hand wrapped in his own as the other held the wheel, his grandmother's ring in his left pocket. But then, after the good, he'd start to remember the bad: the odd moan that made the sturdy truck shake, the end of the tunnel that seemed so far away, the crashing and tearing of wood beneath them, the feeling of his stomach rising into his throat.

Sometimes, he could still taste the water and hear those screams.

It was a miracle, they said. A blessing from God he had made it out alive and unharmed. He figured if there had been a god at all, he would have died, too.

So he sat in his trailer and stared at the guitar, his eyes tired and face in need of a shave. He stared, and god knows how long it was before he got to his feet, scuffed across the floor, and picked it up. The bottle crashed to the floor and dust went everywhere as the strings hummed once they were put into motion. He held it up, looking it over. Hanging around the neck of the instrument was a tarnished gold ring with a large diamond. He pulled it off and hung the leather string around his neck before sitting down. He knew his voice was too far gone after all the smoking he had started, but with shaking fingers, he strummed a single chord, and the air vibrated with the familiar but distant memory of a sound.

He felt his chest tighten, and the sound of the rodeo announcer was quiet in the distance, so he held in his breath and began to pluck. Over and over until he found the rhythm that beautiful face had once inspired. Before he knew it, he could breathe again