Minimal Writing Event: Tribute Mementos

What shocks him most about the guitar is that it seems to be plucked from his memory. His most treasured lost item rests so tangibly in front of him; it glistens with that same pearly shade of white, the cedar wood handle fits comfortably in his palm, and the third string from the left still looks so thin in comparison to the rest. Even all the stickers plastered across the surface are true to life, little reminders of an existence that he is walking further and further away from. He strums a chord, fingertips moving with grace and familiarity; the sound is identical to what he has been missing so deeply. It is the melody he wrote for his father.

But what troubles him is that he can recall leaving his instrument home, vowing to return to it. He's not sure how anyone in the Capitol could even have access to its appearance, the sheer scale of the specifics that have been so perfectly recreated. Regardless of his longing and initial surprise, it's that uncanny feeling of eeriness that causes him to sit the guitar aside and take his leave. This feels like chasing a ghost, accepting a false truth, and the last thing he needs right now is to start being reckless.

Emerson will have the real thing or nothing at all.