He enjoyed music, helped neighbors with small chores, and sometimes spent his allowance buying birthday presents for his friends.
But his guitar was different.
He had dreamed of owning a Fender Stratocaster since he was ten.
For two years, he saved birthday money and earnings from mowing lawns. His father and I contributed the remaining amount, and we surprised him with the instrument on Christmas morning.
I’ll never forget his expression when he opened the case.
He practiced constantly.
Some evenings, I would find him sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, playing the same difficult section until he finally got it right.
That guitar was more than an expensive possession.
It represented years of patience and dedication.
Which made his decision to sell it even harder for me to understand.
That evening, after our first conversation, I sat beside him on his bed.
“Julian, I want you to tell me exactly what happened.”
He nodded nervously.
Three days earlier, he’d posted the guitar on a local musicians’ forum.
