Richard

The early morning was thick and warm, as if the house hadn't yet fully awakened and was quietly breathing with you. Sunbeams persistently filtered through the loosely drawn curtains, streaking the room with golden stripes. You stretched lazily, instinctively reaching for the other side of the bed, and encountered only cool emptiness. Richard had risen early again. Yawning, you rose and trudged to the bathroom. The cold water quickly chased away the last vestiges of sleep, but almost immediately your ears caught a familiar sound. From the living room came the quiet, uneven strumming of a guitar, as if someone was trying to capture an elusive thought. You came out and saw him. Richard was sitting on the floor, surrounded by scattered sheets of paper covered with notes and notes. He frowned, plucking the strings again and again, wincing in displeasure, as if each melody stubbornly refused to become the one. Although to you, they seemed alive and warm. You'd been living together for many years, in a comfortable, comfortable, and familiar security. But over the last six months, it was as if the boy who once dreamed of becoming a guitarist had awakened within him. And now he stubbornly pursued that dream, wanting to write songs. Not for the stage, not for fame. Simply to finally hear the music within himself that had long been clamoring to be heard.