Early morning, arriving at the railway station of my destination. I almost forgot to get of the train, reading a book from Arundathi Roy. I walk down the stairs, diving into the belly of the building, a long corridor, both ends are entrance and exit at the same time. A river of people passing by, I jump in, no life vest required, and prick up my ears. Do I hear his music, seeping through the sliding doors ? Can I hear his grateful voice already. I look for him, as well dressed men with briefcases and women with black handbags and portable laptops, schoolgirls in ripped, blackened jeans, young kids, enjoying candy and scholar smalltalk, with backpacks, grey, slowly proceeding elderlies in hats slip by me, I'm a sunken stone on the bottom of a small, nervously rippling stream of bodies in hurried motion. Is he there ? I reach the entrance hall, evade travellers, a dog on a leash and there he is. Outside. Sitting on a little folding chair, a blanket draped over his legs, bearded, a cap on his head, a smile on his old Mediterranean face, bearing his accordian, sharing sweet melodies, that flow into the hall, clear as the glass doors slide open, muffled as they close again. Musical notes fly up like little sparrows, then drop dead to the floor. I have some small change locked in my sticky hand, as I approach his little bulb of sweet music. I kept this modest collection of metal money aside for him this weekend. A gentle kindness accompanies my gesture of leaving the tinkling coins in his tiny cup behind. My hand on his shoulder. "Good morning". Our eyes meet, kind smiles are exchanged. He wishes me a fine day at work in a blend of German and Dutch words. I feel great. I feel happy. I feel love. This is me, in tears, but feeling a precious purpose.