Javier stood in front of the campfire. The strings of his guitar snapped loudly, and the neck of the instrument was tore in half. With a deep breath, he inhaled the smell of burning wood and it plagued his lungs.

“Why did you smash it?” You asked, gesturing towards his treasured guitar — now ruined and aflame. He said nothing. He didn’t want to.

A part of him wanted to speak, but you were supposed to be dead. You died in his arms during a robbery because of his sloppy actions.