never even spoken.
It's dark and he finally lets his fingers rest on the strings. I can
hardly see him, except for the smouldering end of his
cigarette in the city dusk. I think he's finished and I start to get
to my feet. "Wait!" he calls softly. I spin round in surprise. "This
one is for you."
And he plays the most beautiful tune I have ever heard, no
singing, just a slow, steady rhythm that rings out through the
night, accompanied by a gentle drone of traffic in the distance.
As I walk away, I hope he doesn't see the tears streaming
down my cheeks.
I am suddenly overcome by a fierce wave of determination. I
will tell his story, weave it with my own in a spider’s web of
words. It’s the least I can do for him. I kneel down in the
middle of the street and raise my eyes to the blackness of the
sky beyond the city lights. “Thank you.” I whisper. I have been
saved by The Busker.