A Tin Whistle Player

Ah, not again.

The LRT had stopped for too damn long.

The young man sat stiffly, fingers drumming against his bag, his right leg bouncing with nervous energy.

The announcement had crackled through the speakers ten minutes ago—a temporary delay due to an operational issue. No further explanation.

He had planned his time well. Left on time. Took the usual route. Yet here he was, trapped in a stalled train while the minutes bled away.

Every few moments, his hand would slip into his pocket, fingers wrapping around his phone. Check the time.

Oh, no. The early lecture was starting soon.

The professor was strict—the kind who didn’t tolerate latecomers, let alone excuses. He could already see it. The disapproving gaze. The sharp pause in the lecture. The slow turn of heads, one by one, as if watching something unfortunate unfold.

Also, this wasn't just about a lecture.

It was about everything. His future. His failures. The feeling that no matter how hard he tried, he was always behind, always chasing. The weight of unfinished work, looming deadlines, and quiet self-doubt pressed against his chest.

The train lurched forward.

Finally.

When the doors slid open at Campus Station, he was already moving, weaving through the morning rush. Maybe—just maybe—he could still slip in without drawing too much attention.

The usual route, the familiar steps. Past the narrow corridor leading to the campus square, past the same tiled walls and metal railings he’d passed a hundred times before.

A melody. Soft. Crisp.

As he hurried toward the exit corridor, the melody reached him—soft yet clear, threading its way through the rush of footsteps and echoing off the tiled walls.

His eyes flicked toward the sound.

There, leaning against the wall near the widening corridor, stood the musician.

He was dressed in black from head to toe, the fabric blending into the dim lighting of the station. A black sweater hat covered his head, its edges curling slightly over his forehead. The way the dark tones framed him, it felt almost like a stage curtain, pulling focus to the center of a quiet performance.

But what struck him wasn’t the clothes. It was the face.

Even in the subdued lighting, he could see it clearly—the taut muscles moving subtly as he played, the faint creases at the corners of his mouth, the sharp lines of concentration etched across his face. His lips barely parted around the tin whistle, yet the sound that came forth carried something deep, something distant.

Then, there were his eyes.

Dark, steady—not looking at the crowd, not seeking attention, but gazing somewhere beyond. There was a weight in them, as if he carried something old and unspoken in his music, something only the notes could express.

For a moment, the young man felt as if he had walked into something private, something sacred.

The station around him faded—the movement of students, the rush of footsteps, even the lingering stress in his chest. All that remained was the quiet figure in black, and the music that filled the space between them.

I better keep walking.The student thought.

But his steps slowed.

The tune wasn’t loud, yet it seemed to fill every empty space—the quiet between hurried footsteps, the tension in his chest, the pressure of unfinished work. It didn’t demand attention. It simply existed.

And for some reason, he noticed.

He stopped. Just stood there, listening.

The melody drifted through the corridor, effortless yet deliberate. It had no urgency. No deadlines. No expectations. It was the kind of music that felt like it belonged to a different time, a different world—one where things moved slower, where people weren’t always running.

The song faded into silence, its final notes lingering in the cold air.

For a moment, there was nothing but the distant hum of passing footsteps and the weight of something unspoken between them.

Then, the young man clapped. A single, genuine gesture of appreciation.

The musician looked up, momentarily caught off guard, his fingers still resting on the tin whistle. His dark eyes met the young man’s, studying him—not in suspicion, but with quiet curiosity.

The young man reached into his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill, stepping forward to hand it over.

"You deserve this," he said, his voice steady yet soft. "You've calmed my anxious heart."

The musician hesitated. He glanced at the bill, then at the young man’s face. A small, almost knowing smile curved at the edge of his lips as he finally took it, rolling it between his fingers before slipping it into his pocket.

"Didn’t expect this," he murmured, his Irish accent smoothing over the words. But he wasn’t talking about the money.

His gaze was thoughtful, not in the way someone sizes up a stranger, but in the way someone recognizes something familiar—a quiet understanding shared between two people who both knew what it meant to feel something deeply.

"You stood by," he continued, tapping the side of his whistle lightly against his palm. "Listened. Carefully. That alone is enough. That—that is the real respect."

The young man blinked.

Something about the way he said it made the air feel heavier. Not like a burden, but like truth.

The musician studied him for another moment, as if weighing whether to say more. Then, he exhaled through his nose, his smile deepening—not in amusement, but in quiet gratitude.

"Most folks pass by," he said. "Some toss a coin without looking. Some pretend not to hear. And that’s fine—everyone has places to be. But you?" He lifted his chin slightly. "You didn’t just hear. You listened."

He tilted his head slightly, a thoughtful pause before he added, "That matters more than money."

The young man felt a flicker of warmth in his chest—something deeper than just the relief of a calmed heart.

It wasn’t about charity. It wasn’t even about the music.

The musician’s voice softened, as if sharing a quiet lesson rather than a casual remark.

"You see, lad," he said, tucking his whistle under his arm, "money comes and goes. But the way people treat each other? That stays."

The young man opened his mouth, but he didn’t quite know what to say. He had spent so much time measuring his worth by productivity, by efficiency, by how well he could keep up. And yet here was this man, standing in the corner of a station, telling him that attention, respect, and presence were what truly held value.

It felt… simple. Yet profound.

The musician let the silence sit for a moment before his lips quirked upward again.

"Now," he said, lifting his whistle again, "would you like to hear another? Maybe it can make you calm and comfortable."

The young man instinctively reached for his phone—his old habit, checking the time, checking what he had lost.

His fingers wrapped around it inside his pocket… and then stopped.

Instead of pulling it out, he held it tight.

Five more minutes wouldn’t change anything.

He exhaled. Then, meeting the musician’s steady gaze, he smiled back.

"Something slow and gentle, hope you enjoy."

And so, as the morning rushed on, he let the world wait.

Five minutes later, he jogged across campus. The weight in his chest was lighter, but reality was waiting.

The lecture had already started. He approached the front door, knowing it was slightly malfunctioning. He tried to open it carefully—slowly—but the old hinges caught, and a loud, grating noise tore through the hall.

Damn it.

Every head snapped toward him.

The professor’s sharp voice followed instantly.

"Stop."

He froze.

"Why," the professor demanded, "is there always someone who ruins the atmosphere? Couldn't you wake up a little earlier and show some respect for this class?"

The young man swallowed. Say something. Explain.

His first instinct was to go with the easiest answer. "The LRT was delayed." It was true. It was logical. But…

It sounded like every other excuse. An ordinary inconvenience in a day full of them.

Would it even matter?

He exhaled, straightening his back slightly. Then, with measured politeness, he said, "Professor, may I say something?"

The professor raised a brow but didn’t interrupt.

"I'm sorry for the disruption. I know I was late. But it wasn’t because I woke up late." His voice remained calm, deliberate. "On my way here, I stopped for a musician—a tin whistle player. His music brought me peace, so I stayed and listened.

If I had no respect for this class, I wouldn’t have come at all. But if my presence is unwelcome, I can leave now. If not, I’d like to take my seat and learn."

Silence.

The professor watched him for a long moment. Then, finally, he sighed, gesturing to an empty seat.

"Take your place," he said, his tone softer than before.

The young man slightly exhales, moving toward his seat.

Just as the professor speaks, the classroom door creaks open again.

Another student slips in, hair messy, breathing hard.

The professor lets out a long, exaggerated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, for the love of—And what’s your excuse?"

The student, still catching his breath, blurts out, voice tinged with fear:

"S-Sorry, I forgot to set my alarm…"

The class erupts into laughter.

The professor shakes his head with a half-smile, muttering under his breath. Then, with a resigned wave of his hand, he says:

"Just get in. And for God’s sake, leave that damn door open—seems like everyone’s coming in one by one today."

David

Written in a snow-laden cabin, somewhere in Edmonton

February 6, 2025