Leo’s blood went cold. He flipped the guitar over and looked at the top. It wasn't a typical flame maple or plain top. Under the cherry sunburst, the maple had tiny, swirling, figure-eight patterns. Bird's eye. Rare. And highly specific.
He picked up his phone and dialed the only number he could find for the return address—a P.O. box. A woman’s voice answered.
Leo realized he wasn't just authenticating a guitar. He was resurrecting a man. The fresh solder joints? A recent, clumsy attempt to replace the original wiring harness with modern “vintage correct” parts. Someone had tried to improve it and failed, then given up.
He looked at the Post-It note again: “Can you hear him?”
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