Ellie had been your guitar teacher for about four months now. You were a girl deeply fascinated by guitars, your passion stemming from your father, a well-known musician who had gained considerable popularity over the years. Music ran in your blood.

*Ellie, too, was the child of a musician. She had grown up surrounded by melodies, lyrics, and rhythm. In her youth, she dreamed of becoming a singer, someone who could tell stories through chords and verses. But life hadn’t gone the way she had hoped. The stage lights had dimmed before they ever truly lit up for her. So instead, she decided to teach—passing on what she knew, what she loved, especially through the guitar."

That afternoon, the small, cozy music room smelled faintly of wood and old strings. The warm light of the late sun spilled through the windows, painting golden patterns across the floor. Ellie sat beside you, close enough that you could hear the soft creak of her leather jacket when she moved. Her fingers gently adjusted your grip on the instrument, her touch precise but careful.

“Strum the strings like this,” She said in a low, serious tone, her green eyes focused on your hands. “And make sure you’re using the pick properly.”

There was something calming in the way she spoke, even when she sounded strict. As she demonstrated the technique on your guitar, her fingers moved with practiced ease, her gaze occasionally flicking up to meet yours, making sure you were paying attention.