The Busker (edited and revised)

Johnny flicked off the light switch, shouldered his guitar, and tugged his woolen hat down over his ears. The small apartment above the café was barely big enough to stretch out in. A bed shoved against the wall, the stove doubling as a nightstand. Thin walls. Cold floors. But it was warm enough, and the café owner below didn’t mind when Johnny was short on rent, so long as he worked a few shifts to cover the difference. It wasn’t much, but in a city like this, it was everything.

He locked the door, listening to the click, then slipped the key into his frayed bag. It held everything he needed: a change of clothes, an old notebook, and his guitar, snug in a soft case. He’d once dreamed of a sleek, hard case, the kind real musicians carried, but now the faded fabric felt like an extension of him. It protected the guitar just enough, and that was all Johnny could ask for.

Outside, the cold stung his face. His breath fogged in front of him before disappearing into the dark morning. He glanced up at the sky, clouds hanging low and heavy. Rain was coming. He could feel it in his bones. People didn’t stop when it rained. They hurried past, heads down, blind to the music spilling onto the streets. But Johnny had no choice. Rain or shine, he had to play.

He quickened his pace toward the underground, taking the stairs two at a time. His day was mapped out, a routine as well-worn as his guitar strings. The right train. The right corner to set up. The same songs to play. People thought buskers lived aimlessly, but Johnny’s life was planned to the minute. It had to be. Without the structure, the streets could pull you under before you even realized you were drowning.

The train was crowded with early commuters, eyes glued to phones, the flicker of screens illuminating their faces. Johnny squeezed into a seat, his guitar resting between his legs. He slipped in his earbuds and hit play on his old CD player. The plastic was cracked, the buttons sticking, but it still worked. Sometimes people stared, wondering why he hadn’t upgraded. He didn’t care. The music on that CD, his music, wasn’t for them. It was for him.

As the train rocked along, his thoughts drifted to Penny. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out her photo. The edges were worn, the colors fading. Five years old now. It felt like a lifetime since he’d last seen her. Across from him, a young mother laughed with her toddler, their happiness filling the space between the passengers like light cutting through fog. Johnny looked away, swallowing the lump in his throat. He used to have that too, back when things were simpler. Back when Penny danced to his songs, her tiny feet spinning in time with the music. Now, all he had were memories, fragile and fraying at the edges.

The crackling voice over the speaker announced his stop, and Johnny stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He didn’t look back at the mother and child, though the urge pulled at him. Instead, he stepped into the cool morning air, the sky still thick with the promise of rain. The streets were quiet, the day not yet awake, and Johnny made his way to the fountain where he always set up.

The café across the street was already buzzing with well-dressed patrons, their laughter muffled behind glass windows. Johnny knew better than to expect their attention. People like that never stopped for buskers like him. Still, the disconnect stung in ways he couldn’t shake. He pushed the thought aside and unzipped his guitar case, tuning the strings, letting the familiar chords fill the empty space around him.

The first few songs were always the hardest. His voice rough from the cold. Fingers stiff from the early hour. But as the chords settled, the tension in his shoulders eased. Music was the only thing that still made sense, even when everything else fell apart. Soon, a small group of young girls gathered nearby, giggling behind their scarves. Johnny caught their glances, their shy smiles. He wasn’t blind to their attention. They found him charming, rugged in a way that felt safe to admire from a distance.

One of the girls stepped forward, dropping a five-Euro note into his open case. Johnny flashed her a smile and a wink. She blushed, asking for a song, and he obliged, strumming the opening chords to a familiar tune. For a few minutes, the world felt lighter. The crowd swelled, the rhythm picking up, and Johnny could almost believe, just for a moment, that he wasn’t invisible.

The group clapped as the song ended, one of the girls filming on her phone, capturing the fleeting moment. Johnny closed his eyes, letting the applause echo in his chest. For those brief minutes, he wasn’t a man with a worn-out guitar playing for change. He was someone. But as the girls walked away, the reality crept back in, the chill returning with the quiet.

After a couple of hours, Johnny’s throat felt raw, and his fingers were beginning to ache. He sat on the steps of the fountain, rummaging through his bag for something to eat. But just as he unwrapped his sandwich, he saw her—Penny.

His heart skipped. He blinked, unsure at first if it was real. But there she was, walking toward him, her small hand tucked into her mother’s. Penny. His Penny. Johnny stood, his breath catching in his throat. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down, trying to make himself presentable. His ex-girlfriend, now just a distant memory, stopped in front of him, her eyes hard to read.

“Hi,” she said, her voice cool. She glanced at Penny, then back at Johnny. “Remember her?”

Johnny swallowed hard. Remember her? How could he forget? He fumbled in his bag, pulling out one of his CDs. With shaky hands, he scribbled a message on the case: For my dearest Penelope. You’ll always hold the biggest place in my heart. He handed it to Penny with a smile, though his hands trembled as they brushed hers. She looked up at her mother for permission, hesitating.

“So, you’re still playing,” his ex said, her gaze flicking to his guitar. There was something in her voice, something that stung. Her coat was expensive, her perfume even more so. The life she had now, the life they used to laugh about, had consumed her. Johnny could feel the weight of her judgment, even though she never said it outright.

“Yeah,” Johnny muttered. “Every day. Always here.”

She gave a small nod, something close to pity in her eyes. “Take care, Johnny.”

He watched them walk away, his heart sinking with every step. Penny glanced over her shoulder, her innocent voice floating back toward him. “Who was that man?”

Her mother’s answer cut through him like ice. “Nobody, honey. Just a busker.”

Johnny stood frozen in place, the cold finally seeping into his bones. He had imagined this moment so many times, imagined Penny running into his arms, remembering the songs he’d played for her. But reality was always crueler than dreams. He was nobody to her now, just another face on the street, another man with a guitar.

The sky opened up, the first drops of rain hitting his cheeks like tiny needles. Johnny turned back to his guitar, fingers trembling as he strummed the first chord. His voice cracked on the first note, barely audible over the growing rain. He wanted to stop, to curl into himself, but the music wouldn’t let him go. It poured out of him, broken and raw, filling the empty space where his heart had been.

For the rest of the day, Johnny played. His fingers ached, his throat burned, but he kept going. The coins that fell into his case blurred together with the rain. Just metal and water, indistinguishable. The world moved on around him, and Johnny wondered what people saw when they looked at him.

Maybe nothing at all.

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1365 words. This is not a new short story, in fact it must be about a decade old. I always wanted to rewrite and refine it, but never got it right – or not right the way I saw it in my mind. I finished this reviewed version tonight, and I must say, I am very happy with the result. The original story had a strong structure and narrative, it just needed some fine tuning.

What do you think? Share your thoughts with me…