It disappeared in Vancouver. One minute it was there, leaning where I left it, case with familiar scuff. Next minute not. No witness step forward. Someone said it was probably taken by junkies. That word carries a whole narrative. You can picture the scene if you want. A quick grab, a glance over the shoulder, the instrument already becoming currency, an object to be traded for a few hours of relief. I walked around the block like it might reappear. Checked corners. Alleys. The kind of places where things end up when they are no longer yours. I imagined finding it propped against a wall, waiting for me to claim it again, slightly embarrassed.

For a few days, I entertained the rituals. Pawn shops. Phone calls. Descriptions repeated to people who nodded in the way people nod when they already know the ending. Nothing came back. What surprised me wasn’t the loss itself. Instruments are replaceable, technically, wood, wire, parts assembled with care. What lingered was the interruption. That guitar knew things. Not in a mystical sense. In a practical one. Where my hands tended to go. Which songs opened easily and which resisted. The small adjustments you stop noticing once they’ve been learned. Gone. Somewhere else, it might have been played. Or not. It might have been broken down, or left in a room, or passed along again. The story continues, just not with me in it. I bought another guitar. It sounded fine. It worked. Over time, it learned me in the way instruments do. But sometimes, when I play, there’s a brief sense of something missing. Not dramatic. Just a gap. A place where a particular response used to be. In Vancouver, something was taken, just enough to notice.