At the heart of the great hall of the station stood an old, battered piano with a hand-painted sign propped on top: "Please play." During the morning rush, thousands of commuters streamed past it without so much as a glance, each sealed inside a private timetable. Then a small boy clambered onto the stool and began to pick out a simple tune with one finger, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. A few passers-by smiled; nobody stopped.
Presently a woman in a long coat set down her bag and sat beside him. She began to play something slow and unhurried, and, little by little, the clatter of the station seemed to lower its voice. A man with a briefcase paused, took off his coat and slipped a few jazz chords underneath her melody, like a hand offered in the dark. A busker unpacked his violin and laid a line of song above them both. Even a guard at the barrier began to tap his foot, until a train announcement cut in and the spell, for a moment, wavered.
When the rush finally thinned, the musicians finished on one last chord, held it, and let it die away into the iron rafters. They never exchanged a word. They simply nodded and walked off in different directions, as strangers do, having briefly been something else. Later that morning a cleaner paused by the piano and left a small note on the music stand. It read: "Thank you."