“He spent three Saturdays trying guitars. Said he needed one his son could grow into.”
Julian touched the edge of the case.
Martin pointed to the inside panel.
“Your dad asked my father to modify something.”
He removed a small fabric section.
Beneath it was an inscription carved into the wooden case.
I had never seen it.
Neither had Julian.
It read:
For Julian — whatever you play, make it yours. Dad.
Julian sat down hard.
Martin closed the lid gently.
“The guitar is yours.”
Julian shook his head.
“No. You paid me.”
“And your money is currently buying somebody a wheelchair.”
“But—”
“You can repay the shop someday.”
“How?”
Martin shrugged.
“Saturday work. Sweep floors. Change strings. Learn repairs.”
Julian looked suspicious.
“How many Saturdays?”
Martin smiled.
“A great many.”
For the first time that morning, my son grinned.
It was Thomas’s grin.
And for a moment I could hardly look at him.
