Night had settled over Megaton. Lanterns burned low, their light flickering across rusted sheet metal and twisted rebar. Ash walked the catwalks in silence, Dogmeat trotting at his side, her nails clicking softly against the steel. The air smelled of smoke and gun oil, but for once it was quiet.
Moira's shop was still lit. The windows glowed yellow, shadows shifting behind the cluttered shelves. Ash pushed the door open, the bell chiming faintly.
Moira looked up, her goggles pushed onto her forehead, grease smudging her cheek. Her smile came quick, wide. "Perfect timing!" she said, bouncing on her toes. "I've been dying to show you something."
Ash arched a brow. "Another death ray?"
"Nooo," she said, dragging the word out. "Something better."
She ducked behind the counter, rummaging through boxes and scrap. When she rose again, she cradled something in her arms — long, wooden, and fragile-looking in the glow.
It was a guitar. The body scarred and scratched, the varnish worn down to pale streaks, but whole. The strings were mismatched, some new, some rusted, yet it was unmistakably a guitar.
Ash froze. His hand hovered in the air, uncertain, before he reached out.
"You told me once," Moira said softly, her usual cheer muted, "about how your tribe would sing by firelight. About the ballads, the stories in the songs. I figured… maybe you should have this. I had to trade half a workbench of scrap just to get one that wasn't completely snapped in two, but—"
She stopped, blinking. Ash was holding it now, his fingers brushing the strings. He wasn't smiling, but his eyes… his eyes looked far away.
He sat down on a crate, the guitar resting against his knee. His thumb brushed the strings, and a rough chord spilled into the room — uneven, raw, but rich. He adjusted the tuning by ear, turning the pegs with slow precision, until the sound grew clearer.
Then he played.
The notes rose, halting at first, then steadier. A melody unfolded, low and aching, carrying the weight of memory. It wasn't just sound — it was the echo of nights long gone, of voices raised under starry skies, of a tribe whose fire had been extinguished but not forgotten.
Moira sat, silent now, her wide eyes reflecting the soft light.
Dogmeat tilted her head, ears perked, then settled with a sigh at Ash's feet, tail thumping once against the floor.
Ash didn't sing. Not yet. But his hands spoke enough. The song filled the shop, wrapping around the shelves of scrap and the cracked ceiling, until even the buzzing light seemed to hum along.
When the last note faded, the silence that followed felt heavy, reverent.
Moira swallowed. "Ash…" she whispered. Then, quieter: "You're really something, you know that?"
He set the guitar down gently, as if it were made of glass. "It's just a song," he said, though his voice was softer than usual.
Moira smiled faintly. "No. It's more."
Dogmeat's tail tapped the floor again, as if in agreement.
And for the first time since his tribe had burned, Ash felt like their voice still lived — through him, through the strings, in the quiet heart of Megaton.