Chapter 17
Kaze
It doesn’t take long for me to realize the guitar needs new strings.
The notes that should flow effortlessly are off, just slightly, but enough to irritate me. At first, I try to ignore it, focusing instead on the way her fingers move over the fret board.
She’s clumsy but determined, her brow furrowed as she struggles to find the proper positioning.
There’s something innately familiar about her effort, something that tugs at memories still hidden in the fog of my mind. But seeing her so engaged, so intent on learning, drives me to keep going despite the imperfections.
Every afternoon for the last couple of days, after our fruitless research sessions, I watch her getting ready to learn a bit more, her lips slightly parted as she listens to my instructions.
Her intensity captivates me, the way she immerses herself completely in what I instruct, as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. And honestly, it’s hard to focus on anything else when she’s like that.
But now, it’s undeniable.
The guitar is out of tune, and the strings are well past their prime.
Knowing the instrument isn’t living up to its potential grates on me.
I know how much more it could be, how its sound could transform, and I know, without a doubt, that when she hears it the way it’s meant to sound, she’ll fall even more in love with music.
So, I convinced her to go to a music shop to get it fixed.
She’s not thrilled.
“We can buy it on ,” she protests, her tone edging on pleading. “No need to go out. It’s safer that way.”
And the truth is, if my fingers could still touch, still feel, I’d have bought the strings myself and tuned the instrument in an instant, and she’d probably have accepted it without a bargain.
But part of me is glad I can’t.
It gives me an excuse to see her in the daylight, outside the confines of her room, her house.
Most of our moments are spent within her four walls, and while I cherish every second, there’s a curiosity growing inside me, a need to see her in different settings, to know everything about her.
She’s becoming an obsession, and I constantly have this desire to uncover every layer of her.
There’s a part of me that seeks to witness her in other moments, things I’ve only imagined.
I want to watch her live.
Not just exist between the four walls of her house, wrapped in the weight of things she doesn’t say.
I want to see her sitting in a cafe, eating a croissant or spooning ice cream straight from the cup, her lips curving in that soft, absentminded way when something tastes better than she expected.
I want to see her reading in the park, curled up on a bench, completely lost in a world that isn’t this one. To watch the wind catch in her dark purple hair, the sunlight slipping through the strands, making her glow in a way she’d never believe if I told her.
I want to see her walking through a bookstore, fingers ghosting over the spines of novels she’ll probably never buy, or at a market, testing fruit, carrying bags too heavy for her but refusing help, because of course she would.
I want to see her in a record store, flipping through vinyls, pretending she’s not entirely overwhelmed by the amount of options, until she lands on something unexpected and lights up with happiness.
I want to see her get caught in the rain, watch as she hesitates between running for cover and letting herself soak, the battle playing out in real time before she inevitably gives in, arms out, head tilted back, laughing at the sky.
I want to see her out there, in the world, instead of locked away inside, carrying burdens too heavy for one person.
And yet, that desire comes with something dark, something selfish, because the thought of anyone else seeing her like that, seeing her the way I do, unsettles me.
Because she’s mine even if she doesn’t know it.
So I want to share the ice cream with her, read the books in the park with her, explore record stores, and talk about music with her.
I want to dance and kiss her in the rain. I want to help her carry the bags and the weight of life because she deserves that much.
I want to be out there, in the world, with her because I don’t want to share her with the world.
I want to be by her side, exploring the world.
But I can’t. And never will. Not like she deserves.
So, for now, I push her to leave the house at least this once.
Besides, I don’t believe that she simply doesn’t love leaving the house.
It’s true that she doesn’t like it, but it’s almost as if she knows that by being isolated, she doesn’t have to face something.
I just don’t know what exactly.
“You coming or not?” Her voice breaks through my thoughts.
I look up to find her standing by the door, waiting for me, a hint of impatience in her tone, and the guitar inside the proper case, already strapped to her back.
The corners of my mouth twitch into a smile as I follow her out. The moment we step into the sunlight, I can sense her reluctance.
She walks with a sort of reserved grace, and I can tell she’d rather be anywhere but here.
It’s in the way she hunches her shoulders slightly, the way she avoids making eye contact with the few people we pass. Her ‘bad mood’ is almost endearing, and I can’t help but tease her about it.
“Not a fan of the great outdoors, are we?” I say, my voice light as I walk beside her.
She throws me a side-eye, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I like the outdoors just fine. I just don’t see the point in wandering around for no reason.”
“Ah, but we have a reason,” I counter, smirking. “We’re on a mission to save a poor, neglected guitar. It’s practically heroic.”
“Sure,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on her lips, and I take it as a small victory.
“You know,” I continue, nudging her playfully, “you might even enjoy this little outing. I promise I’ll make it fun.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “Oh! We’re feeling confident today, aren’t we?”
“You say that, but I see through you, love. Deep down, you’re excited about this,” I tease.
She glances at me, a single eyebrow raised. “Excited about buying guitar strings?”
“Excited about going out,” I correct, grinning. “You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a spark in them now, “If you say so.”
“I do,” I reply confidently, falling into step with her. “You might even crack a smile before this is over. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Don’t push your luck, ghost boy,” she quips back, but I can hear the amusement in her voice, and it makes me smile wider.
“Boy? Ghost boy?” I feign offense, placing a hand dramatically over my chest. “I’m a man. A full-grown, manly man.”
She bites her lip, trying not to laugh. “A manly ghost, you mean?”
“Yes, a manly ghost,” I retort, puffing out my chest. “I may be a little… incorporeal, but I still have my pride. So if we’re going to be on a nickname basis, let’s at least get it right.”
She chuckles softly, shaking her head. “Oh, your pride. I should have known.”
“Exactly,” I say, leaning in closer as we walk, my tone dropping to a mock-serious whisper. “I don’t call you Tinkerbell, although you’re clearly… tiny.”
She gasps in mock indignation, placing her hands on her hips. “Tiny? I’ll have you know I’m at a perfectly average height.”
“For a hobbit, maybe,” I tease, unable to resist pushing her buttons just a little.
She narrows her eyes at me, but there’s a playful glint there. “You know, for a ghost, you’re awfully bold. Maybe I should start calling you something less flattering. Like… Casper.”
“Ouch,” I say, pretending to be wounded. “But if I’m Casper, then you must be Wendy.”
She smirks. “Nice try, but I’m more of a Morticia Addams.”
I laugh, nodding in agreement. “Alright, you got me there. Morticia suits you better, although she’s more dark vibes than purple.”
She grins, clearly pleased with herself. “Glad you agree.”
As we continue walking, I can’t help but keep the banter going. “But seriously, love, being this close to the ground… you ever gotten dizzy?”
She lets out a genuine laugh, and it’s like music to my ears.
I watch her, captivated by the sound, the way her eyes close with the intensity of it… the way the laughter seems to chase away any lingering shadows around us.
“Casper here is winning, baby,” I say, a triumphant smile spreading across my face. “I made you laugh, and we’re not even there yet.”
She shakes her head, still smiling. “Fine, I’ll give you that one.”
When we get to our destination, and step into the music store, I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong it nearly knocks the breath out of me, or it would if I still breathed, that is.
The store is small, tucked away in the heart of Stormhaven.
The walls are lined with rows of guitars, both electric and acoustic, each one more beautiful than the last. The air is thick with the scent of polished wood and metal strings, and the soft hum of ambient music plays in the background, blending perfectly with the atmosphere.
It feels like I’ve stepped into a sanctuary, a place where I belong, where I could lose myself for hours, days, even. The guitars hang like pieces of art, each one calling out to be played, to be heard.
There’s a stunning vintage Gibson Les Paul in the corner, its sunburst finish glowing under the soft lighting.
Beside it, a sleek black Fender Stratocaster gleams, the curves of its body begging to be touched.
Acoustic guitars of every shape and size are displayed on another wall, their wooden bodies shining with a warm, inviting glow of the space.
I can’t touch them, but just being here, surrounded by the instruments, feels like coming home.
I lean in close to Khalee, my voice a soft murmur in her ear. “Ask for a set of phosphor bronze strings. Light gauge. They’ll give you a warmer, more balanced tone.”
She nods, but I can tell she’s nervous.
She’s not used to places like this; she’s out of her element, but she’s trying, and that alone makes me smile.