The girl was invisible to most.
The others shuffled past, hands thrust deep into their pockets to keep them warm from the chill winter air. Collars were turned up, hats pulled down low, thin wires running from reddened ears only to disappear into interior pockets. No one looked in her direction, or if they did, they only saw the dull shine of the rosewood instrument tucked under her chin or the white cloud of rosin that glittered in the air like minuscule snowflakes. The blur of her rapidly-numbing fingers over the strings and the way the wind fiddled with the ends of her burgundy scarf were lost to the masses as she stood on the street corner, just a small figure amongst millions.
A modest collection of coins glinted from her case as she turned the page, clipping it in place to keep the wind from playing with it. She checked her watch, smiling at the promise of a steaming hot cocoa in just a few minutes. With renewed enthusiasm, she started "Let it Snow." Despite the black and white music on her stand, her eyes wandered through the crowd, gaze slipping across the man wrapping an arm around his shivering wife, lingering on the boy with hair almost as fiery as the red lights on her Christmas tree, and skipping over the mother wearily pushing a stroller laden with bundled-up twins, happily sucking on matching candy canes.
The slate-grey sky seemed to press down even more heavily as she finished, as if snow, waiting to be released, was weighing down the clouds, pushing them closer to the ground. A few extra dollar bills sat in her case than when she had started, and she closed her book and pulled to the front another one, not a Christmas volume, but its simple cover yellowed due to excessive use.
She opened to the first page, pinning it down with care. Suite No. 1 in G major - Prelude, read the heading. With a deep breath, she placed her bow on the string and let the instrument sing. Her cold fingers set and reset, clumsy from the cold wind, tucking in close for a brief second as if they were trying to gain warmth from each other before she needed to move them away again. Dangerous though it was on the crowded street, she closed her eyes, swaying to the beat she set for herself.
This song wasn't for money, nor for the pleasure of the thousands of oblivious souls who walked past her every second. No, they walked to the rhythm of crosswalks and streetlights, white figures and red hands telling them when to stop and go; their feet were guided by the honks of cars and the tinny notes coming from the earbuds deafening them to the outside world. No, this song wasn't for them, those that never listened. This song was for her.
In those moments, the others might well have not even existed. Pulling every ounce of emotion from her instrument, the notes swirled around her in the glowing space behind her fluttering eyelids. She climbed from the bottom range of the instrument to the top, pausing as if on the crest of a hill, then let her fingers cascade downward in an ever-faster accelerando, only to sweep back upwards and delay for another imperceptible second, like her instrument was gasping for breath after singing a thrilling declaration, the words falling sweet from her silver strings like a love song. She dropped down to nothing, almost making no sound at all, then began to build up towards the climax, bow glancing over the strings in a brilliant ricochet, faster and faster—
He smashed into her from behind, her eyes snapping open and the bow flying off the string with an ugly screech. She staggered forward, instinctively pulling her instrument into her body to protect it, knocking over her stand and sending the music flying into the street. "Oh no, oh no, oh no," she cried, leaning down awkwardly to pick up the soaked papers from the gutter, hands already full with her instrument, too protective to set it down, even for a second.
She let out a noise of despair as she pulled her beloved Cello Suites off the cold pavement, a water stain having saturated the bottom half of the book, the old pages already starting to curl. She turned back to the sidewalk to see the man who had knocked into her setting her stand back upright with a guilty expression on his face. Adjusting the white kippah that was sitting askew on his curly hair, he met her eyes, then immediately dropped them, muttering apologies. "Ma'am, I'm so sorry, I just heard you playing that song and I wanted to hear it better but I stumbled and then I bumped into you—"
