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That guy wasn’t dead. He wasn’t quite here, either. Cursed, maybe, like Miguel had been? Though Miguel didn’t know why he could see the man, in that case, since Miguel was no longer cursed, and firmly back in the land of the living for a while now.
Maybe it didn’t matter that much.
Because the man was looking at Miguel’s guitar with the kind of reverent longing that Miguel had always known well, the kind of ache for which making music was the only balm.
“Wanna give it a go?” Miguel offered, holding out the guitar.
The man nodded, wide-eyed, and cautiously took the guitar. Novice fingers plucked at the strings in an uneven cadence, but even so, there was a beauty to the rough, unpracticed tune. Awe shone in the man’s eyes as he played, and Miguel couldn’t help but think of his own early attempts on his secret guitar, before he’d taught himself to play off of video recordings.
“I can show you, if you want?” Miguel said. “How to play it.”
“Please,” the man said. “If I’d known how, if I’d been able to play more beautiful music, then perhaps the Priests…” he trailed off, a distant look crossing his face. “Well, it’s too late now. But perhaps it will be enough for me to keep this memory with me when I wake.”
“I don’t know what all that means, or how you got here,” Miguel said, “but I think I understand how you feel. My family used to forbid music; I had to learn in secret. So I’m never gonna say no to somebody who wants to learn.”
Miguel guided the man’s hands as he rambled out everything he knew about the instrument, never knowing that this moment was one shared across the reach of time.