The man with the long white beard was in the underpass singing, strumming his acoustic guitar and filling the echoey chamber with music. A familiar song oft-heard on oldies stations, nothing out of the ordinary.

I fished into my purse and found only forty cents, but I still threw the coins into the emerald-velvet lined case at his feet. I began to cry again as I looked at him briefly, and walked away with more tears trickling down my face.

His voice rang out more clearly and strongly as I made my way to the station plastform. It carried me upwards and through the salt water streaming from my tired eyes.

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