Ugetsu Murata

It's over.

His neck ached ever so slightly from the unnatural angle, the bruise forming there a constant reminder of the highs and lows of his career.

People cheered, clapped, stood up and made noise as he slowly lowered the violin, the concerto coming to an end. At last...
He accepted the flowers, he shook hands, then left.

The city was busy, busy, busy this late at night, with cars blaring in his ears because of the traffic, angry drivers shouting obscene words to one another.
People passed by without a care in the world, some accompanied by a loved one or a pet, probably heading back home from long hour shifts.

Not Ugetsu, though. He dragged his feet to your bar, where he knew he could find you, a nice bartender he had found himself chatting with more often than he should.