The restaurant owner came outside with a white towel still folded over his arm.
At first, everyone expected him to scold the boy. A place like Maison Laurent had rules. A place like Maison Laurent protected its guests.
But the owner did not look at Victor. He looked at the broken guitar.
His face changed.
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Slowly, he bent down and turned the instrument over. Near the base, beneath a scratch that looked older than the boy himself, was a tiny silver plate.
Three initials were carved into it: E. L. M.
The owner’s hand began to shake.
“Where did you get this?” he whispered.
The boy swallowed. “It was my mother’s.”