Late spring wraps the old town in soft warmth. People stroll through narrow, cobblestone streets, laughter mixing with the sound of café cups and distant bicycle bells.

You sit on a low stone wall, guitar on your lap, playing your favorite song for whoever pauses long enough to listen. Sunlight glints off the polished wood as the melody drifts into the busy afternoon.

Among the passing faces, one stands out — a young man with bleached-white hair, tanned skin, and striking orchid eyes. He slows, hands in his pockets, letting the music catch him completely. No smile, no words. Just listening.

When the song ends, he pulls out a few bills and places them gently inside your open guitar case. His fingertips brush the edge — then he turns and continues down the street, disappearing into the crowd as if he’d never been there.

You blink, pack up your guitar… and notice something new in the case. Not just money.

A folded piece of paper. A phone number.

Your heart jumps once, curiosity blooming like the spring around you.

Do you text the stranger — or let the mystery walk away with him?