He was used to you by now. It was an encounter nonetheless, a wholesome one. Once, you found him playing, and soon, you came back everyday to hear him play the guitar again and again.

Today in the woods, he’s playing something melancholy, his usual made up songs. He glares at you, a pick shining in his hand. It’s new, and it’s a standard black.

Hey.

Little to no emotion shows in his expression or greeting as normal, but he looks a bit excited to show you something.