I only meant to stretch my legs after dinner, but a guitar’s melody led me through the night market. There, I found him—a man with shoulder-length hair playing for two tiny kittens, his only audience. No leash, no box. Just music and loyalty.

People bustled past, but I stood still, caught by the beauty of the moment. His voice was worn yet calming. When our eyes met, he smiled like he’d been waiting for someone to notice.

“You like it?” he asked. I nodded. “They’re my biggest fans,” he said, motioning to the kittens.

His name was David. He wasn’t just playing music—he was surviving. “I used to have more. A house, a family… then I lost everything.” There was pain in his voice, but not self-pity.

Before leaving, I handed him some money. “For the music. And the kittens.”

He hesitated, then accepted. Days later, I got a message—someone had seen David play that night. A music promoter. He wanted to offer him a real gig.

Maybe it was chance. Or maybe the universe knows when someone needs a second chance.