Whoosh, whoosh—the wild wind howled outside.
The world beyond was completely engulfed in darkness, shrouded in thick, swirling mist. Even the glow of streetlights and headlights couldn't pierce the heavy veil of night.
A glance at the time: barely 5:30 p.m.
Pushing open the door to the bar, a soft glow of creamy yellow light and the rich aroma of beer greeted him, wrapping around his body like a warm embrace, allowing his muscles to unwind.
The door creaked as it swung back and forth, its sound mingling with the tumultuous noise and icy gusts from outside. The chaotic clamor faded as the door finally shut, leaving the world outside behind and enveloping the room in serene stillness.
It wasn't dinnertime yet, so the bar wasn't crowded.
The evening's performances had just begun, with the heavy-hitting underground artists from Manhattan and Brooklyn yet to take the stage. The energy was still in its warm-up phase.
Scanning the room, there were only four occupied tables, leaving the space feeling particularly vast.
The patrons were lost in their own conversations, laughing and chatting, oblivious to the subtle changes happening on the stage.
The clink of glasses, the curl of cigarette smoke, and the hum of idle chatter blended with the background noise from the kitchen and the occasional sounds seeping in from outside.
Anson stepped onto the stage, guitar strapped to his back.
Familiar with the routine, he checked the microphone, the sound system, and the lighting.
He carefully brought a stool onto the stage, quietly took a seat under the spotlight, and began tuning his guitar.
Calm and focused, as if this was the only thing that mattered in the entire world. His deliberate, gentle movements betrayed his love for the instrument as his fingers lightly brushed the strings.
Time seemed to slow in this small space, creating the illusion that the outside world had stopped entirely.
Inadvertently, a few patrons' gazes drifted to the stage, their attention caught by the solitary figure. They lingered for a moment, their tumultuous thoughts inexplicably soothed by the sight.
But the spell was short-lived. A friend's voice called them back to their conversation, and they momentarily forgot about the figure on stage.
Behind the bar, Edward Bowes wiped down the counter, pausing to glance at Anson as he tuned his guitar. A sigh escaped him.
Anson had said he was immersing himself in a role, exploring the character's world in his own way.
Clearly, it wasn't that simple.
Edward didn't understand what went on in the minds of these actors.
After all, Anson already had everything—fame, fortune, the power to summon success at will. Why couldn't he just stay a pretty face, like Adam Sandler? Coasting through comedic roles, endlessly recycling the same persona across films, raking in easy money while lounging in a mansion, leaving the critics to scream into the void.
Wouldn't that be paradise?
But then again, Edward couldn't entirely fault Anson.
Look at himself. While other bars caved to the trend of pop and dance music, Edward clung to the belief in the unique atmosphere of live performances.
It wasn't about electronic beats and synthesized rhythms that left people empty after their fleeting euphoria. It was about real instruments, genuine sounds, and the connection forged between performer and audience, letting the music breathe life into the moment.
Maybe that's just life.
People could always choose the easy way, quietly sanding down their edges and hiding their colors to blend in. Or they could take the harder path, holding onto their individuality, embracing their true selves, and facing reality head-on to seek the life they were meant to live.
That was the beauty of New York—a place where stubborn fools could still carve out a corner for themselves.
Just then, Anson looked up and caught Edward's gaze, offering a soft smile.
Edward, startled as if stung, quickly averted his eyes, busying himself with his work to cover his embarrassment.
Anson, oblivious to Edward's inner turmoil, lowered his head again and gently plucked the strings of his guitar.
Edward glanced back at Anson, sighed deeply, and turned to dim the surrounding lights, leaving only the spotlight above the stage.
The warm, orange-yellow light with a hint of gold and crimson bathed the stage in a caramel glow.
The exposed brick walls, simple setup, and minimal equipment faded into the background, drawing all focus to the performer.
One light. One chair. One microphone.
And one guitar.
That was all.
No opening speech, no introductions. Anson's fingers danced lightly over the strings, releasing clear, soothing notes that resembled smooth pebbles tumbling through a babbling brook, embarking on a misty morning journey.
The music wasn't loud, intrusive, or demanding. It blended seamlessly with the ambiance.
Anson had no intention of grabbing attention. He played quietly, content even if no one noticed or appreciated it. All he needed was a corner to share his story.
That was enough.
The melody was crisp and bright, tender and winding.
There were no lyrics; Anson simply hummed along, letting the notes resonate with his voice, infusing the melody with the softness and sensitivity of his soul. The sound flowed gently through the microphone, rippling outward.
Unexpectedly, it wasn't a dramatic outpouring or a flamboyant display—just a simple hum. Yet it pushed the clamor of the outside world further away, leaving the bar's warm energy to fill the empty space.
Inadvertently, someone's gaze lingered on the stage, and their thoughts began to drift before they even realized it.
The melody felt so familiar—so achingly familiar—that it teased at their memory, though they couldn't quite place it.
Just then, Jim arrived with a tray of beer. A curious patron stopped him to ask.
Jim replied, "Oh, that's '500 Miles' by The Journeymen."
Recognition dawned. Of course!
In the history of music, The Beatles' Yesterday is hailed as the most covered song, with 500 Miles by The Journeymen a close second.
Written in 1961 and featured on The Journeymen's self-titled album, the song has been covered countless times worldwide for over forty years.
In 2013, the film Inside Llewyn Davis revived the song, awakening memories and cementing it as one of the most beloved tracks from its soundtrack.
The familiar melody triggered a flood of memories—not the song itself, but the people, stories, and moments associated with it.
Though the tune lacked words, its hum resonated deeply, stirring reflections hidden in the recesses of the mind.
Someone sat silently, their focus slipping as the world blurred around them.
And still, the voice on stage murmured softly,
"Not knowing, I've already left home, five hundred miles away.
Far from home, oh, far from home..."