Ace forced his feet forward, boots scuffing softly against the worn wooden floorboards. His gaze remained locked on Cord's face – that familiar curve of the lower lip, the slight dimple that appeared only when he smiled tentatively, just as Cord did now.
"So, what is it you are looking for?"
"A Guitar. A birthday present for my nephew."
"What kind?" Cord asked, gesturing towards the wall. "Acoustic? Electric?"
"Acoustic." He responded and shook his head ever so slightly to wake himself up from this dream. But it wasn't a dream. This guy was remarkably almost identical to Beck.
"Well..." Cord hesitated for a moment as if trying to make a decision, then gestured toward the back corner. "The acoustic section is over here." Ace followed him and Cord continued.
"I think we have something that might suit a young musician. What kind of music does your nephew play?" He then picked up a sleek, deep mahogany guitar hanging on the wall. "This Gibson is popular with beginners. Solid spruce top, warm tones. Easy action." Cord's fingers brushed the strings lightly as he took it down, releasing a soft harmonic hum that vibrated through the air.
Ace noticed the movement—the fluid grace, the way Cord tilted his head slightly when concentrated—identical to Beck while focusing on something.
Ace forced himself to breathe evenly. "He plays rock mainly, but I'm hoping he'll branch out." He watched Cord's hands meticulously adjust the tuning pegs. The scent of pine resin from the new strings mixed with the shop's incense, sharp and nostalgic. Cord's knuckles, Ace noticed, bore the same faint scar across the right index finger where Beck had cut himself repairing a shutter years ago. Impossible coincidence piled upon impossible coincidence. Or was his mind playing games with him, and he was seeing all these things through his mind and they really were not there.
"Solid choice," Cord murmured, strumming a bright C chord. The sound resonated cleanly through the hushed store. Ace felt the vibration in his ribs. "Great projection. Has your nephew ever played a Gibson before?" Cord's eyes flickered up as he asked. They were Beck’s eyes—blue flecked with silver, framed by the same thick, dark lashes. Ace swallowed hard. He was sweating profusely.
"No, he... his old guitar wasn't fancy." Ace’s fingers clenched against his thigh. He needed to touch the instrument, anything to ground himself. Cord handed it over, their fingers brushing briefly. The contact sent a jolt through Ace—Beck’s hands had always been cool. Cord's felt exactly the same.
"Careful," Cord said softly, almost apologetically. Ace fumbled slightly, the guitar’s weight unfamiliar yet anchoring. He plucked a string; the note hung trembling in the incense-thick air. Behind Cord, the woman he’d been speaking to earlier slipped into a back room, leaving them alone.
