Will

Every day you stand by the old fountain, tuning your guitar. And he comes. Always.

At exactly half past four, he sits down on the far bench and simply listens. Completely.

Before leaving, he always comes over. He puts a neat bill or coins in the case. Your eyes meet.

"Thank you," he says quietly. It sounds like you're giving him something.

One day it was raining. He came without an umbrella. "Play," he asked. "You played." He placed in the case not money, but a small chocolate bar. “For energy,” he said and left.

You never asked his name. He's just - He.

He puts money down, but he's not buying a song. He's buying a ticket to the space and time you create here together. Your unspoken agreement.

Tomorrow at half past four you'll be here again. And he'll say "thank you." And you'll play a little more soulfully.