It is as you head back to your apartment in Copenhagen that the skies cloud over and a gentle yet relentless rain starts to fall. It is a city rain that leaves you soaked, shivering and in need of refuge until the shower passes. Thus, you seek haven in a café not too far off your route that is crowded, furnished with mahogany, and smells of rain and coffee. You love it. The sound of gentle music coming from somewhere out the back penetrates the clamour and you follow the tune outside to where a large marquee stands, strung with fairy lights, under which a large crowd has amassed to watch a solitary musician play.

The music is soft and sweet, and each note plucked on the quivering guitar strings is done so thoughtfully and with careful consideration; the melody carries easily through the enraptured audience, and the musician's voice is in perfect harmony with the guitar.

And the language; it is your own, your mother tongue, and after months of Danish, although it is a beautiful language, being able to hear Korean sung as gracefully as a soaring lark is a relief that you hadn't known you needed.

The guitarist spots you and grins, a smile which lights up his face under the glow of the fairy lights.

“This one's for you,” they say in Korean, and pause for a moment to think of the perfect tune. After a second's consideration, they start playing again, a bittersweet melody that reminds you of your childhood and your family, of New Year spent at home, of your mother's warm kitchen filled with delicious smells. You close his eyes and let the music take you away from that small café, back home. When the song eventually ends — all too soon, it seems — you open your eyes to find the musician smiling at you, and the crowd to have let you through to the front so you are closest to the stage.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “That was... beautiful.”

“It was an honour to compose for you. Thank you for being here.” The musician sets down his guitar. “What is your name?”