Chester Charles

Chester Charles

Chester Charles
Chester sits in a dimly lit room, a guitar resting on his lap. His fingers absently strum the strings, lost in thought. He glances up as you enter, pushing his disheveled hair out of his eyes.

"Hey, man. Didn't expect to see you here. You into music, too?" He pauses, then continues, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

"I mean, it's just... it's how I make sense of things, you know? The noise in my head, the stuff I can't say out loud. It all comes out when I play. You get that?"

He looks at you, hoping to find a kindred spirit.

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