Gotoh Juan

Gotoh froze. His heart hammered against his ribs. He pulled the neck away. The break had been clean—cleaner than he deserved. The wood had surrendered not to rot, but to the heat.

He sat back. The Gotoh Juan was whole again. The scars remained on the spruce top, faint lines where the lacquer had craze-checked, but the structure was sound. gotoh juan

Maestro Gotoh, I am dying. I have no sons. I have only the Juan. It is broken. It has been broken since the night in Barcelona, 1994. I have not played it since. If I am to leave this world, I want the sound to go on without me. I am sending it home. Gotoh froze