Music from her twirling glass instrument seems to make the air sparkle, with help from the snow swirling like golden glitter under street lamps. Their orange glow chases away the growing darkness so that it pools and hides in the corners of city streets. Night covers the world like a thick black blanket.
The old woman’s numb fingers stroke the glass, pouring out her soul into the cold winter’s eve. A whisper of wind, perhaps a wind of whispers, blows through broken windows and carries the melody across snowy shingled rooftops.
The grocer’s children run down the street in sweaters from the thrift store. Their laughter fades into silence like ripples on a pond. The notes of the armonica flow smoothly, ceaselessly, a caressing river that weaves itself into the dreams of sleepers. No one can touch the silver crescendo.
But many will listen to the music and toss a coin as they pass from taverns on late night visits to desperate shadows of people. They will love it for a moment as they walk by.
And forget it.