The man whispered before she could finish.
“Elina…”
The guitar slipped slightly in her hands.
She stared at him, frozen.
“How do you know that?”
The old man’s voice broke.
“Because I wrote that song for her.”
The crowd went silent.
The young woman shook her head, tears rising.
“No… my mother said he died.”
He slowly pulled an old photo from inside his coat.
In the photo, her mother was young, holding the same guitar.
And beside her stood him.
The woman stepped back, crying.
Then the man turned the photo over.
On the back were three words:
“For our daughter.”
