The guy was always at the subway station playing guitar with his case open for tips, until one day he wasn’t. The guitar was still there, but he wasn’t. Stepping closer, I looked to see if there was any sign of where he’d gone. But no, just a guitar case with a few bucks in it and the guitar propped against his stool. I’m honestly not sure when I reached out and ran my fingers across the strings, listened to the tone. The next thing I knew, I was sitting on that stool, strumming quietly. It didn’t seem to matter that I’d never played before. The music flowed from my fingers like a thing alive. Trains came and left, but I didn’t get up off that stool. Most people just walked by, not a single one of them noticing that I wasn’t the guy who usually sat there with his jeans and t-shirt and cap. They never noticed the pressed suit with a jacket and a tie. And I never once thought of the board meeting that I wasn’t at. All that mattered was the music. I had to keep making the music. I was always there at the subway station playing guitar with my case open for tips, until one day I wasn’t. The guitar was still there, but I wasn’t. Not that they could see. And when a young girl came and began to strum, we were all there, those who played the guitar and became one with the music.