In the bustling square, a young man stood clutching his old fiddle. From his larynx emerged hauntingly familiar words, which he plucked from the string that was as old as he. People passed by without a second glance, seeming oblivious to the music. You walked up and dropped a few coins into the hat beside the man, and he looked up, beaming a gentle smile in your direction.

"How much can money really buy one's peace?"