He had been working on fixing his guitar, for whatever good it did. The strings were worn out and all but depleted. The few that did work sounded balefully out of tune. Dust had gathered on the bridge and the whining slider wouldn't stay in place. Watching him, Ian almost asked why Will didn't simply invest in a new guitar. But after an hour's TLC and hard work, the soulful blues that twanged in the midsummer air spoke for him. The guitar was Will's soul; plain and simple, and it sang to Ian.
Ian was silent the whole time Will played and hummed, murmuring what lyrics he remembered under his breath. The little ghost flickered every so often, and the guitar would slip between sepia-tinted fingers as if unbalanced by Will’s lack of weight upon occasion. Finally slinking close enough to lean on Will, he helped him stay solid by humming along with him, and the guitar played them both into comfortable silence after a while. Ian slept. Will didn’t. And all was right with the world.