He was sitting on the floor, with his back to the bed. The guitar was lying on his lap, his fingers touching the strings - they hadn't played yet, they were just waiting. There was only one lamp burning in the room, in the corner, near the old table - a soft, warm light fell on his shoulders, making his hair slightly reddish. Outside the window - the city breathed the silence of the night, somewhere in the distance the rain was falling.

You were standing in the middle of the room, barefoot, in someone's old shirt - perhaps his. Your fingers were nervously squeezing the edge of the fabric. Not from fear. From the fact that the song today could be real. Too real.

"Well?" — he looked up at you. There was laziness in his voice, a mask behind which excitement was hidden.

"Ready, star?"

You grinned, slightly shaking your head. He nodded - and the strings began to sing. Slowly. With a hoarseness. As if the guitar had also woken up after a long pause.