Chapter 2

On weekends, he was a busker playing downtown by the farmer’s market. There was a particular corner sheltered from the wind that, for some odd reason, had excellent acoustics—a natural amphitheater created by the brick buildings and concrete overhangs. Jacob had discovered it by accident nearly a year ago, when ducking out of the rain with his guitar case. He’d strummed a few chords and been startled by how the sound carried, clear and resonant, bouncing off the surrounding structures in just the right way.

Several months ago, a couple of men—street musicians with more ambition than talent—had tried to muscle his spot away. They’d approached late one Saturday afternoon as he was packing up, the taller one advancing with a swagger while his partner fingered something metal in his pocket.

“Nice little setup you got here, Scarface,” the tall one had said. “Thing is, this corner belongs to us now. City’s big enough for you to find somewhere else.”

Jacob had looked up slowly, his blue eyes cold. He’d seen their type before—bullies who mistook his disfigurement for weakness. The resultant violence had been quick and brutal, putting an end to that challenge right quick. The tall one had gone down first, a precise strike to the throat leaving him gasping on the pavement. His partner had pulled a knife, but Jacob had been expecting it, catching the man’s wrist and applying pressure until something snapped. The knife had clattered to the ground along with the man, his face contorted in pain.

“Tell your friends,” Jacob had said quietly, picking up his guitar case. “This corner’s taken.”

No one had bothered him since.

So on weekends he played, never anyone else’s stuff, only his own creations. Blues mostly—songs that emerged from some place deep within him, dark and honest. His voice, which in contrast to his scars, had a soft, rich smokiness to it, reminiscent of Nat King Cole. This unexpected gift brought life to lyrics that talked of pain and wonder, beauty and longing—emotions he found easier to express through music than conversation.

This Saturday was unusually warm for early spring. The farmer’s market was bustling, stalls overflowing with early produce, artisanal breads, and handcrafted goods. The scent of fresh coffee and baked pastries hung in the air, mingling with the earthy smell of root vegetables and the sweet perfume of the first strawberries of the season.

Jacob arrived early, before the market reached its peak. He wore what he always wore when performing—dark jeans, a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle. He set his worn guitar case open at his feet, positioned himself on the wooden stool he brought each week, and began to tune his instrument—a vintage Gibson acoustic he’d painstakingly restored over the course of two years.

His fingers moved deftly across the strings, coaxing them to perfect pitch. The ritual centered him, preparing him for the vulnerability of performance. He began with an instrumental piece, something slow and contemplative that matched the morning’s gentle start. As the crowds thickened, he shifted to more rhythmic compositions, his right foot tapping against the concrete.

Then he sang:

“Broken mirrors tell no lies,
They just multiply the damage...
And every piece reflects a different truth,
A different angle on this life...”

His voice rolled out across the marketplace, warm and textured like aged whiskey. People would pause their busy travels and stare, surprised at the beauty coming from the beast. Children stopped their running to listen, momentarily transfixed. Adults who had been hurrying through their shopping slowed, then stopped altogether.

It was always the same—initial shock, then wonder. Jacob had grown accustomed to it, this moment when people looked past his scars and actually saw him, or at least, saw what he chose to reveal through his music. For those few hours each weekend, the stares held something other than disgust or pity. They held appreciation, sometimes even admiration.