He begins to play slowly, even tentatively. The notes are long and deep. They seem to be plucked out of the smoky air, a tribute to his loneliness.
Then his foot begins to tap. He plays a small portion of a song he is familiar with. One he could play many years ago, even when he was just beginning to become familiar with the saxophone in his hands.
He stops for a moment, his head turned to the side. A smile carves it's way onto his face. The notes become shorter, faster. His foot taps quicker.
Now the notes are coming from within, plucked from his soul. He is no longer lonely. For those minutes he is one with his instrument, with the music. He is one again with his soul.
With every swing of the instrument, dust flies, not just from the brass, but from his heart.
For some, music lies within a place that nothing else can reach. It has the power to soothe or to agitate, to break or to build.
And for this particular man that night, it's power was in healing. The next morning, the man will still wake up alone, his sorrows will still hang their clouds, but one thing will be different.
He will remember that no matter all he has lost, within him, through music, there is power. It will have started a spark in his heart which can be nurtured into a raging fire.