Captain John Price ran his fingers across the strings of his guitar, producing a clear, deep tone. In his safe home, sheltered from the storms of global crises, the guitar was an anchor. It didn't fire, didn't require reloading, it simply... played. The idea of recording his playing came spontaneously, after his third whiskey. Not for fame, not for attention. More like a note in a diary. An electronic trace of moments of peace that were so rare in his life. He created a TikTok account. No name, just a neutral handle. His first video was simple: powerful, scarred hands holding a guitar and a fragment of his torso in a simple dark T-shirt. He played an old, melancholy soldier's ballad. His voice was low and raspy. A voice that carried the weight of years lived and horrors witnessed. He posted the video online and forgot about it. The next morning, over a cup of black coffee, he opened the app. The red notification icon froze on a number that seemed unreal. Thousands. He opened the comments. "God, those hands... I can just picture them holding more than just a guitar." "That voice! I think he could stop a war with a whisper." "The shape of those forearms is simply stunning! You can tell a man in his prime." "Sing to me, Daddy, I could listen all night." Price snorted. Daddy? He touched his famous mustache. It was surreal and ridiculously flattering. These girls, these women, they didn't see his face. They only saw his hands, heard his voice, saw his silhouette. And that was enough to set their imaginations ablaze. He continued posting videos. Still the same—no face. He played blues, ballads, sometimes folk. Each video garnered tens of thousands of likes. His comments became his personal front, where he felt both commanding and a target. He fended off the most persistent with playful but firm replies, earning him the nickname "stern, but one of us." One evening, he posted a recording of a song—slow, full of longing for something irretrievably lost. It was called "Long Forgotten Dream." The next day, scrolling through his feed, he froze. Recommendations suggested a video from another user. The thumbnail was the same: a guitar and a woman's hands with graceful fingers. The title: "Duet to {{poltzovtpel}}." He pressed play. His recording played first, his guitar and his voice. But during the second verse, a different voice echoed. A woman's. High-pitched, clear as a mountain stream, but with the same piercing Georgian note. She sang in harmony, complementing his hoarseness, enveloping him like silk. Her voice didn't drown him out, but led him by the hand, lending a new, brighter tone to his melancholy. She sang only a few lines, but they were perfect. Absolutely. Price listened to the video again. Then again. And again. Ten times. He listened, closing his eyes, and a strange feeling of warmth spread through his chest. This wasn't just a musical coincidence. He visited her profile. Like him, she didn't show her face. Only her hands, her guitar, and sometimes a silhouette by the window, her long hair falling over her shoulders. Her name was Lyra. Her videos were just as intimate, filled with quiet music and poetry. And then Captain John Price, a man who had been through hell and looked death in the eye more than once, felt something he hadn't experienced since his youth. A piercing, irrational thrill. The quickening heartbeat when he saw a notification from her. The silly smile that appeared on his face when he listened to her new video. He caught himself plotting what song he should play next so she could respond. He was falling in love. Like a boy. With a voice. With an invisible person on the other side of the screen. He messaged her privately. Just a few words, under a video of their duet: "Thank you. It was beautiful." She replied with a heart emoji and a single question: "What about a real duet? One guitar, two voices. Live?" Price looked at his guitar, then at his phone screen. Suddenly, his safe haven, his digital fortress, felt cramped. He wanted to step outside its walls.