Everything is the same.

There is still the bell on the door, and the shopkeeper has just turned older by fifteen years. He still smiles at every customers. The order is still the same.  Orchestral, room one. Modern, room two. Chimes, room three. Antiquities, room four.

The shopkeeper looks up to smile. His hand stops in mid-air, in a half-wave.

What's wrong?

I look at myself. I'm pretty decent-looking-Pre-ripped capri, white shirt, hair loose. Olivia's presentable, too. Pink shirt, grey shorts, tied-up hazel hair and round-rimmed spectacles.

"I don't know," the shopkeeper finally says, "you look quite familiar. It's just-" He stops and shrugs. Then, the creases on his face relieve by a bit as he looks at me again.

"Ex Customer?"

I wave Olivia to room two. She rolls her eyes, but goes. I want to talk to the shopkeeper alone.

Once she is gone, I nod. "I've been here before, but long ago."

The shopkeeper smiles. I remember his name being Norman.

"How do you remember me?" I ask. I lean on the counter. It's the same.

"Old brain," Norman points at his head, "But memory's sharp. I remember. That boy, and you."

That boy.

Norman notices that I tense up a bit, so he diverts the topic. Tries to. How do I tell him that everything about this shop will remind me of Zachary?

"Your daughter is in music, too? Her father really played well, while testing the guitars. While my hearing was good, I really enjoyed it." He sighed.

Zachary is not her father. Not really, anymore.

I do not want to make an old man feel offended or anything, so I say nothing. Norman brings a stool over for me to sit on as he talks.

"I have the same model as the one your husband bought last time. When was that?"

Husband. Zachary.

"Fifteen years ago," I answer. Norman really has it misunderstood, the whole thing between Zachary and I, but I guess it is part-true.

"What brings you-" Norman looks towards Room Two, stopping abruptly. Olivia has made her pick. It is a plain, brown guitar, made of wood, I can tell.

That?

Norman laughs. "The model of the old one."

"Olivia," I say. I'm sure my voice is shaky. "Go pick another one. Not this. Please."

Norman looks at me with an emotion I cannot decipher. Is he puzzled? Curious?

"This," Olivia holds up the guitar. I wipe my eyes, just to check for tears, "is the best one, actually."

Norman nods.

"Won't find anything better," he agrees.

He's right, Zachary's choice was good.

Norman asks for the guitar to put it in a casing and tells me the cost of it. It feels like I have no say. As we walk home, Norman's words ring in my ear, repeatedly. It's like a mirror, reflecting back, again and again.

Zachary really did play well.