The exact moment the busker’s song lands

It’s 8:32 a.m., and I just played ‘Blackbird’ on my battered guitar at the corner by the old library. The rain had stopped five minutes before, and this one kid—maybe seven, with a backpack too big for him—stopped dead in his tracks, head tilted like he’d never heard anything real before. His mum didn’t even notice. That second between the last note and the silence? That’s the only thing that matters. Everything else is just waiting for it.