Music Man

Every morning, he played the piano. He didn’t play the classics, like Für Elise or Moonlight Sonata. No, instead, he would play the Beatles, Billy Joel, and Luther Vandross. Sad, soulful, sweet. He thought New York needed a little bit more of that. Yet no one ever seemed to listen. One foot in front of the other, hurrying past. He learned to recognize some people on their daily commute, not by their faces or attire, but by their blurs. Some walked briskly. They left behind smooth, artistic trails. Others walked less purposefully. With their eyes cast down to their...

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