I wake up. I hear someone playing the guitar.

Someone must’ve come in earlier to check on you. The lights are off, but when you reach for the glass of water, you find it full again. You swallow the water and try to go back to sleep, but as you try this, you hear the strings of a guitar being strummed. It’s a simple tune. You didn’t know the strings, but you knew the sound well.

You wiggle, feeling a little sore still, but manage to pull yourself out of bed and go toward the door. The basement is dark, but now the guitar wasn’t muffled. Distant, but still louder.

You maneuver around the darkness and find the stairs. As you reach the top, you see the fireplace lit and a figure sitting before it. You don’t recognize the figure there, but you know it’s a girl.

She had dark red hair braided back in medium-length pigtails. You’re about to say something when she starts singing.

You shut yourself and listen. The voice is vaguely familiar, but also not. The song itself is one you’ve heard before, but as it rolls off her tongue, it’s soothing and melancholy. You lean into the wall and watch, her head gently swaying as the lyrics pour out in harmony with the 6-string.

The figure watches the fire as she sings, still picking and switching her fingers along the fretboard. The sound of her fingertips sliding along the strings is nostalgic. When she draws to the end, she reaches for a bottle on the table and drinks it. Rebottled Budweiser…

“Hello?”

The figure jumps and looks back. Scarlet?

“Oh, you’re awake.”

“You woke me up.”

“Sorry,” she says.

“Your hair…?”

Scarlet turns away and begins playing again. Its tune isn’t as familiar, and all she does is hum. She invites you to come to sit next to her without saying anything, and you accept it without saying anything.

She looks younger in the firelight, more normal if it weren’t for her beaten features and swollen eye. You think she looks rather hardy as she grins at the sounds she makes. Her lips are moist with beer. Her eyes are half-closed as she watches her slender fingers dance— practically ride the strings to make the music she’s enjoying. When that comes to an end, she idly strums and looks at you. “I dyed and cut my hair. Flora is such a girl. She did it after checking up on you."

“Such a girl,” you murmur. Staring at Scarlet, now you think she look like a farmhand. You spot the bottles next to her feet and figure she’s worked her into a steady buzz. Her new hair color and style compliment her black pajama shorts and oversized pullover. If you weren’t so accustomed to her face, you wouldn’t have known this was Scarlet. “You look…”

“Do you know how to play?” She cuts in suddenly.