When I was ten years old, I touched an electric guitar for the first time—it belonged to my older brother next door. While I was fooling around with his guitar, he was busy talking on the phone and forgot that I was playing with something that was nearly damaged.
"Hey! Be careful, kid!"
He shouted, yanking the guitar out of my hands.
"Be a little more careful. Do you even know how much this guitar costs?"
As he spoke, he blew the dust off the guitar and gently wiped it, as if he were caring for a child. I stared at him for a long moment.
"You really like that guitar, huh?"
"Of course. If I ever become a famous musician around this neighborhood, I'll show you," he said excitedly, bouncing around with the guitar as if performing for himself.
"Well? Isn't it cool? Do you know how to play, kid?"
My eyes lit up, as if I were looking at a precious diamond.
"I don't know… can you teach me?"
He laughed mockingly, set the guitar down beside a statue, then rubbed my head roughly.
"Haha, you wanna play guitar too? Fine, I'll teach you how to play."
Suddenly, he rummaged through a cabinet and pulled out a music book. He tossed it toward me.
"Here, take it home and study. I'm not giving it to you because I feel sorry for you—just because I think it's useless anyway. You can keep it."
I caught the book and flipped through its pages. The messy, unfamiliar symbols left me confused.
"What is this?"
I hesitated as I asked, trying to understand the symbols printed in the book. He laughed, his voice teasing.
"That's music, kid. If you want to understand it, you've got to be persistent. With patience, even iron can be sharpened into a needle."
Suddenly, his phone rang, echoing through the apartment. He answered it, speaking excitedly to the person on the other end.
"Alright, kid, I'm heading out. Go home."
With that, he grabbed his jacket, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear as he continued talking, then walked out, leaving me behind—alone and adrift.
I looked down at the book, then over at the guitar. The lines in the book resembled the strings on the guitar, followed by strange dots I couldn't understand. I decided to grab the book and run home as fast as I could. It was already getting dark, and my house was only a few hundred meters from his apartment.
As soon as I got home, I rushed into my room, forgetting the shoes I had thrown carelessly by the door. My father was still at work and hadn't come home yet. He always came back late, often drunk. I jumped onto my desk, placed the book down, and began studying it. Beside me were a few rubber bands and a piece of wood from a school project—I immediately assembled a miniature guitar.
After working tirelessly, I finally created a guitar with all the markings shown in the book. I studied and practiced, and from that moment, my dream of becoming a musician was born. Wherever I went, I carried the guitar with me, performing for my friends. They listened attentively as I played. It seemed that the guitar and I were always bound together, never apart—even when I slept.