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012 | My grandparents seem so happy in this picture. I wish I knew them better.

Darius Mustaine grew up hearing their names like a story — Dave and Genna Mustaine. His grandparents. Legends, not just in music, but in love. Every whisper about them came wrapped in awe — how they lived fast, laughed loudly, and loved like it was the only thing keeping the stars in the sky.

Dave with that wild grin and a guitar that looked like it might burst into flames at any moment; Genna beside him, eyes full of mischief and devotion, a woman who seemed to shine even brighter under the stage lights. They were chaos and beauty all at once — partners, performers, soulmates.

And then, too soon, it ended. Dave gone at thirty-four, the world dimmer without him. And Genna — his beautiful, fierce Genna — followed not long after. People called it heartbreak, tragedy, fate. Darius thought it was love in its rawest form — the kind that doesn’t survive in pieces.

Now, when he steps on stage, sequins glinting under the light, he sometimes feels them there — the pulse of his grandfather’s riffs, the whisper of his grandmother’s laugh in the wings. Their story wasn’t perfect, but it burned bright, and it lived on in him.
Some loves don’t fade; they just change form.