The rain had just stopped.
Water still clung to the edges of the pavement, reflecting the golden glow of streetlights like scattered pieces of broken glass. Outside the luxurious Regency Crown Hotel, people stepped carefully over puddles, their polished shoes never quite touching the dirt.
On the stone steps, just beneath the grand glass doors, sat a boy.
He looked no older than ten.
His hoodie hung loose on his thin frame, sleeves covering most of his hands. His jeans were faded and torn at the knees, and his sneakers—if you could still call them that—were barely holding together. Beside him lay a small, worn backpack.
Everything he owned was inside it.
His name was Evan.
And to most of the world, he didn’t exist.
Guests walked past him like he was part of the building. Some frowned. Some looked away. A few slowed down—just long enough to judge—before moving on.
Evan didn’t ask for money.
He didn’t call out.
He simply sat there… listening.
Because from inside the hotel lobby, faint but clear, came the sound of a piano.
That was the only reason he stayed.
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