Clicking her ball-point pen shut with her thumb, sliding the valuable treasure into her pocket where she felt it against her body and, therefore, knew it was safe, she reached down past ragged, harsh rock to the case that served as a bed for her true language and delicately eased the lid open, lavishing the item with the utmost respect. Inside the hard case, her acoustic guitar lay dormant, soundless and dead. Her fingers glided back and forth over the nylon strings, her sigh absorbed by the howling gale, picking up sand as well as force, warning of the tempest due to arrive soon. Taking the warning in stride but essentially letting it in one ear and out the other, her hand grasped the familiar neck of frets and gently lifted it from the case, her meditated state guiding her to yet another spectacular conclusion she never considered previously. Why did she trust her art? Because without her, its medium was nothing, and only through her did they serve a purpose, have meaning.

Relaxing into a comfortable position against the rock, her guitar melding to her body like it knew her on a level only soul mates might surpass, she played each string in sequence, bringing her instrument to life. Immediately, her ear knew the language was off, although many would be unable to tell, and she tightened the third peg and loosened the fifth and sixth accordingly, a miniscule amount of degrees obtained between them in total. And, when she strummed again, it was perfect.

Her palm slapped down against the strings and thin wooden sheet covering the hollowness within, pacifying the default chorus into lifeless serenity with almighty authority in one sudden movement. Reluctant to give herself blisters anytime soon, and having learned this lesson the hard way an embarrassing number of times in the past, including an unexpected refresher course on the subject as recently as a few weeks ago, Ashley fumbled around in her pocket for her pick, circumnavigating the pen and searching a little deeper until flat plastic touched her fingers. The requirements were all met. At last, she could play.

The fingers on her left hand fell into position on the fret board with a velvet expertise that often made people feel intimidated or bitter, dancing over the various intervals and flickering additional ornaments into a song she wrote roughly a month ago, warming up and awakening her musical mindset with the somewhat difficult piece. She was born a musical prodigy, or at least the impression she got that she was supposed to be was pretty distinctive and universally believed by everyone she met as a kid. But the talent didn’t come naturally. She spent her whole life learning how to become good at something that might impress her father, picking up the vocabulary and the accent ever since she was three and given her first real, though tiny, guitar as a birthday present. Apparently, reaching that level was an impossible feat. It didn’t matter how proficient she became or what she did to please him; her dad was never proud of her. Not even proud enough to listen to her play. He probably didn’t know she could.