Stirred, I grasp my jacket from the upper shelf, looking for some coins, when he passes by me. But dignity or shyness prevents him from waiting for me to find the coins in the last pocket of the jacket. When I finally find it, he has already gone. Trough the windows I can see him in the platform, under a late afternoon sun, and, in a tired gesture, he lays the violin against a concrete column and picks his purse from the pocket, turning it down on his palm.
His face is suntanned, and his facial features remind me of some people from Mediterranean Balkans, or maybe Middle East.
A great dignity and a hint of grief emanates from him.
I remain, with my coin in my closed hand.