She sat there for what seemed like days just staring at that guitar, looking at the fingerboard with it's well worn frets, the sides smooth from years of his endless playing. It wasn't that he was very good or that she could remember singing with him but she caressed that neck like a long lost lover. It was his no matter what he had done in his life he had made sure she would get his guitar. He loved it more than he did her and she knew it but now that he was gone, she no longer envied the intimate object.
The quiet of the empty room was almost more than she could handle but she needed to sit there to hold onto what she could remember of him on this the last day of his life. She could hear him now, playing rather badly and laughing as she brought him a coke and covered her ears and it made her smile to think of his laugh.
It was here that she found him early that morning, the quiet of his dorm silent for a change especially when he was writing but it was here, slumped over his keyboard when she knocked and the door was open. The knock on the door startled her.
"Ma'am?" came the voice of the officer, almost scared after having interrupted her earlier as she was taking pictures of the crime scene. She looked up at him saw the face staring past him, the square jaw and those deepest ever changing eyes.
"There goes the neighborhood," she said as she nodded to the young officer and stood.
"Good to see you too, Ellie.". The deep drone of his soft southern accent always made her skin crawl, knowing him how she knew him and what he could do with that voice of his. He moved past the officer and closed the door in the young man's face without turning to face him. "Any ideas?" He wasn't a big guy but his frame was solid, broad chested and heavy shouldered. His dark brown hair was much like his eyes changing color with his apparent mood or as he saw fit.
"Nothing solid," she replied as she backed away from the chair coming to stand behind him. "Cleaning lady found him sitting slumped over his keyboard," she was cut short by his hand as he moved around the room, holding it up to indicate silence. There was something chilling right before he stepped around her, picking up the faded guitar with the scratched and faded pick guard and studied it for a second.
"You look like a good friend," he said softly as he held the body of the guitar up to his face, studying the sound hole carefully, caressing the gentle scratches from years and years of playing. "Call him back..." he paused to breathe out and in slowly, "bring his soul back to me." The temperature of the room dropped ten degrees or better and the air shimmered like heat rising off the pavement.