?<strong>Chapter 1122:</strong>


    The ranch owner quickly understood. “You’re referring to George. I know him well; he’s my neighbor. The violin you mentioned was crafted for Benson, right?”


    Elyse’s expression clouded with uncertainty as she muttered, “Benson?”


    The woman who owned the ranch reminisced, “That’s correct. George handcrafted a violin that was meant for Benson. Unfortunately, the process took longer than expected, and Benson had to leave. He couldn’t wait around.


    So, they made a n: Benson would return to pick it up once it was done.”


    She hesitated, her smile tinged with sadness. “But Benson never came back. Nearly three decades have passed, and George has waited all that time. No one knows what became of him.”


    Elyse kept quiet, unsure of how to respond.


    The ranch owner sighed, her mind drifting back in time. “Honestly, I expected George to sell the violin long ago. But he never gave up hope. It’s been almost thirty years. If nothing had happened, why wouldn’t Benson have returned by now?”


    Intrigued, Elyse tilted her head. “Did Benson leave a contact number? Did you try calling him?”


    The owner pondered for a moment, then replied, “He did give us a number, and at first, we were able to reach him. But one day, the line went dead. We had no other way to track him down.”


    Elyse sighed. “It’s such a shame. If only there had been a way to find him.”


    The owner folded her arms, nodding in agreement. “I remember seeing Benson when I was a child. He didn’t look well when he came here. He always seemed so downhearted, rarely smiling.”


    Elyse took a sip of her warm drink, curious. “What happened next?”


    The owner smiled fondly. “Benson and George hit it off right away. Benson could y, and George was a violin maker. They foundmon ground. That’s when George began to think of Benson as more than just a passing guest.”


    After a pause, Elyse asked, “Was Benson any good at ying the violin?”


    The owner replied earnestly, “He was incredibly talented. Every time he yed, it felt like the most moving sound in the world.


    I used to beg him to perform for me, and he was kind enough to do it often.”


    Elyse continued, “Do you remember what Benson liked to y most?”


    The owner frowned, trying to recall. “I’m not sure what his favorite was, but there’s one piece I’ll never forget.”


    Elyse leaned in. “Which one?”


    “Valse Sentimentale.” The owner’s face grew somber as she spoke. “He was in tears while ying it. He seemed heartbroken.”


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