There’s a spot in the subway where the acoustics are perfect and the cold blowing down the stairs makes people wonder if they need to be in such a hurry. The subway busker knows where to stand. He puts his bag at his feet and begins to play. Smooth chords echo off square pink tiles. His mellow voice follows them down. He plays and waits. She’ll be by soon. She’ll drop a dollar and smile and most likely say, ‘nice day,’ or, ‘morning.’ Then she’ll walk on.

The subway busker turns his collar up against the wind. Starts another song. Soft rock is best for this work-a-day crowd. He nods to each eye that catches his. The cold plays havoc with his tuning. He’s waiting. Remembering her words. ‘I love this song. Play it every morning for me. Please.’ Her face so sad and grateful.

8:25—he sees the crowd from her train at the turnstiles. The first chords ring out. The verse talks of dreams and things that cannot be. The chorus, in a key that suits his voice, tells of persistence and faith.

She smiles as she passes, drops her coin into his bag and thinks, as she does each morning, of her late husband. She pays to grieve. No one will know.

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