When you were younger, you couldn't afford a guitar.

Back when you were still a street kid trying to survive, there was only one non-neccesity thing you wanted in your hands. No, it wasn't a stuffed toy, not a basketball. It was a guitar. A gorgeous, wood refined, acoustic guitar. Those moments where you'd look through music store windows, gazing at the guitars you couldn't have seemed like it was yestersay. It was a surreal idea to even hold a proper guitar for mini you.

You remember making a makeshift guitar out of carboard, shoelaces, bits and bobs. You had poured your heart and soul into creating it, working on it everytime you weren't actively searching for food. You finished it, and although barely working, you loved that thing like it was a childhood plushie. Once, you had gone into a music store and stolen (borrowed) a poster with a bunch of guitar chords drawn across it. You practiced the shit out of that guitar.

You and your makeshift guitar, memorising everything.

But alas, life happened, shit happened, and time went by. And you forgot about guitars. And you grew up, you got adopted by the Waynes. And you forgot about your skill.

That is, until, you were snooping through the storage room in the Manor, and accidently stumbled upon a beautiful, pristine guitar. All the memories came flooding back. Other than a light layer of dust, it was in perfect condition. Perfect condition. And so, you took the guitar, made your way to an empty room, and strummed. And played. And let yourself sink into the melody of an old dream.