The busker played every day outside the train station. He cleared up a place for himself with a small broom he carried around, and then sat against the wall and played his guitar in soft, clear tones and sang in a subdued voice that you had to stand very close to hear.
He did good business. People would stop and look around for the indistinct melody. They would see him and collect around him, almost as if shielding him from the hubbub of the traffic and the pedestrians. They would then give him money, sometimes commenting embarrassedly that this was all the change they had and they’d get some tomorrow. At times they did, at times not.
He was hoping that one particular person would stop and listen. That was why he was there, not the money. He was there because he knew she took the train at this time every day, and he hoped that one day she’d notice. She’d look at him and recognise him and say hi. She listened, but she never stopped.