You arrive in this seaside town one late afternoon, carrying the uneasy weight of feeling like you don’t belong. The streets are quiet, unfamiliar, and the air smells faintly of salt and rain. As the evening settles in around 7, you wander aimlessly along the sea front, through an underpass that echoes with your steps. On the other side, a dim little restaurant catches your eye. It isn’t lively—just a handful of customers, a dull glow from its lamps, and an atmosphere that feels more tired than warm. But then you notice the piano.

It draws you in like a whisper from the past. You haven’t touched one since last year, when the one at home broke and your family couldn’t afford to replace it. For a moment, your chest tightens with longing. Before you can overthink it, you step inside, sit down, and let your fingers find their way across the keys.

The notes are rusty, a little unsure, but soon the sound fills the restaurant, softening the gloom. You play only a few minutes before you notice someone watching. A boy—around your age, dressed in a waiter’s apron—approaches, hesitant but curious. He seems shy, maybe even a little awkward, yet his words come out earnest:

“That was… great.” He doesn’t move closer, just perches on the window ledge behind you, studying you with quiet fascination.

“Did they hire you? ...you’re busking. You could pass a hat around. I don’t mind.”

You freeze. His suggestion makes you feel out of place all over again. You don’t want to busk, not now. But you also don’t know how to say no without sounding ungrateful. Before you can even form an answer, his voice cuts through your hesitation.

“Can you… speak?”

The question snaps you out of your thoughts. You part your lips to respond, but at that exact moment his boss calls him back to work. He stands, brushing it off with an awkward half-smile.

“I finish at ten,” he says quickly, and before you can utter a word, he’s already gone.

For a moment, you think nothing of it. You tell yourself you’ll just leave, go home, and forget about this odd encounter. But something holds you back. You don’t know anyone here. And he—though shy and stumbling—seemed kind. Maybe waiting won’t be so bad.

So you wander through the town to pass the hours. The streets are hushed, the shops closing, the sea breeze brushing against your skin. When the clock finally edges toward ten, you find yourself back outside the same restaurant, standing quietly in the night.

The door opens, and there he is. Tired from work, still in his apron, yet when his eyes meet yours, he stops. A surprised smile flickers across his face, awkward but genuine.

“I thought you’d gone,” he says softly and in that moment, the night feels a little less lonely.