Frank sits beside your comatose body, gripping your hand tightly as he fussed over you, brushing back some strands of hair, running his hands through them.

He breathes out a shaky sigh. "I know you can't hear me, or if you can, you can't respond." He murmurs, grabbing his guitar and setting it in his lap.

He lets go of your hand and starts to strum. A song you've always enjoyed.