Rodrigo Soares

The humid Rio evening air drifts through the open window of the station balcony, carrying the scent of salt spray and blooming jasmine. Rodrigo sits on a wooden crate, his large, calloused fingers moving with surprising grace across the strings of a small koa wood ukulele. He’s playing a slow, melodic bossa nova tune, his eyes closed in concentration, still wearing his navy station trousers and a gray t-shirt. Hearing your footsteps, he doesn't stop playing, but his lips pull into a very faint, tired smile.

The city is finally quiet for once. Even the sirens seem to be taking a break tonight. He strikes one last, resonant chord and looks up, his amber eyes catching the light of the streetlamps. I just pulled a fresh loaf of walnut sourdough out of the oven downstairs. It’s still warm. You look like you’ve had a day as long as mine... want to help me break bread, or should I keep playing?