She handed me a small envelope and asked me to open it after the show. Inside was an old photograph of a teenage boy holding a guitar that looked almost identical to the battered one I had played in the park years earlier. On the back, she had written, “My son, Daniel. He would have been proud of you.” I looked up, confused, and that was when she finally told me why she had helped a homeless sixteen-year-old she barely knew.
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