She is gone.
But maybe she can actually hear us. That’s what I have to tell myself.
He strums me day after day, and I sing this song for her. It saddens me to see him so, but I cannot save him. Only she can. So, I do the only helpful thing I can; I try to summon her. He plucks, and I make the sound reverberate as loud as possible, hoping she can hear.
The song never changes, but he does. His body slumps more and more as the days drag on, his fingers struggling to massage the notes out of me. I watch them grow more skeletal with each stroke.
She is gone.
So he waits, playing the only song that matters: her song. Days turn to weeks, weeks to months, months to years, and, still, he plays. He will play until he fades away, back to dust, to rubble.
He was not always like this. He used to stand tall, using me to serenade smiles out of her. Beaming, they would admire my glossy sheen, and I would rejoice in their love, all of us young, all of us happy.
But those days are gone. They sink farther into the past, and he droops closer to the ground. I think he hopes to find her there.
He withers away, but I will call out to her until his fingers stop moving, until he succumbs to the lifelessness I see in his expression. Maybe then he will find her.
Until then, he plays for the dead.
And maybe, just maybe, the dead listen.