She was there every day the sun shone, sitting against the big oak in the park with her guitar. No one ever saw her come or go, but when she played anyone nearby stopped what they were doing. They gravitated to her, faces suddenly pensive, often tearful as if their deepest longings surfaced.
She always played the same three songs, soft and sweet, and sang more to herself than to anyone else. I often wondered if she even noticed her audience. Newcomers to the park would fumble in pockets or bags for loose cash and try to donate, but found no place to leave money. It was only a girl and her guitar.
I don’t know why none of us ever tried to talk to her. We would hover, entranced until the music ended, then wander on still half under the music’s spell. I never even learned her name, although her face remained with me long after the song was done and I had moved on.
One year the big oak was struck by lightning. The city council voted to remove the tree, stump and all, due to the safety hazards of a huge dead tree in a public area. When they pulled up the roots, they found a skeleton of a girl with a few rusty wires coiled near the fingers. The girl never played again.
The Word Worker 