He played his old acoustic with everything inside of him. Sad, mournful melodies dripped from his agile fingers and dissipated in the warm breeze of a summer night. He would always wait until the beach was empty, until the sun had already set. Until the only light he had came from the moon, reflected on the surface of the ocean, and the lighthouse beam.

He would lean his back up against a tree. Every inch of his face – which, during the day, was always drawn with worry – would soften like butter.

And his voice. Oh, his voice.

It was like no other voice I had ever heard. To this day, I have never heard a voice quite like his. It had the same effect as a river passing over a series of smooth stones – immediatly calming.

He had an air about him that was perfectly balanced.

I know he knew I was there, yards away, wrapped up in a too-large sweatshirt in the sand, tracing the constellations with my eyes as his perfect melodies drifted into my ears.

We had an unspoken agreement never to speak.