I was walking down the main street in Sutton. It was one of those rare sunny days in London—the sky clear, the air mild, and the city felt welcoming.

I was in a neighborhood I didn’t know—though London is a city that’s hard to fully know. I often stopped by St. Nicholas Mall, where I had coffee at a cozy little pastry shop. They offered fresh cakes, always temptingly arranged, with a sign above them that read, "With tradition since 1946."

I believe the place was Polish—the staff were friendly, and the cakes delicious. The coffee was good, too.

A calm, almost quiet spot—a small island amidst the city’s noise.

In front of the entrance, a young man was playing the guitar and singing. He had a microphone and an amplifier. People passed by—some stopped to listen, others just walked on.

I liked his singing. It took me back to the days when I used to listen to English rock bands all day long.

His guitar case lay open in front of him. I couldn’t tell how old he was, but youth pulsed through his veins. He hoped to be rewarded for his music. He had gathered a few coins—mostly one-pound pieces.

I couldn’t give him even that. I had spent my money, and there wasn’t much of it to begin with.

I had nothing on me, but he sang as if he wasn’t asking for charity. He radiated confidence—he knew he was a good musician.

I decided to come back next Sunday and leave him something. But he was gone. No one was playing.

That same night, I dreamed I gave him a pound. I woke up thinking—perhaps he was already playing in another corner of London.

In the following weeks, other musicians came to that same spot. Some played jazz, others did pop covers. But none of them touched me the way that boy with the guitar did. There was something different about him—not just music, but soul.

I know that street musician will be great someday. Because he sang with his soul. And talent has no brakes. It only has one direction—forward.

Street musicians are the soul of the city—the living heartbeat between the traffic noise and the footsteps of hurried passersby. They don’t seek a stage—they create one wherever they stand.

Sometimes we pass them by, lost in thought. Other times, we stop for a moment, and a wave of warmth washes over us. One voice, one melody—and the city is no longer the same. In that brief moment, we feel humanity, truth, vulnerability, and strength—all at once.

I believe I will hear of him someday. I’ll see him on television. Because he sang with his soul. And people like that, even on the streets, walk the path to something great.

I still visit that mall and stroll around Sutton, but I haven’t heard the songs of that street musician again.