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The old man’s fingers trembled on the strings, each note echoing the sorrow that never left his soul. The guitar had been her favorite, now it was his curse. At night, he heard her soft voice in the chords, a melody unfinished. No one else heard the whispers. He played to silence them, but they grew louder. Her face appeared in the hollow wood, pale and watching. Every strum deepened his loneliness, but he couldn’t stop. The music, once love, had turned to mourning, and he feared it would never let him go.