The trains came and went. The street emptied. The sky darkened. Clouds blew in. She would be playing in the rain before long. She packed up her guitar and left the station, knowing this was the end of it. No one wanted to hear an old woman singing songs from the olden days. She should have taken the chance when she was young and had looks to go with her music.

John said she was dreaming. But she’d seen that young singer gather a crowd at the station, filling his tip jar, recording his music for his YouTube channel. It worked for him. Why couldn’t it work for her?

Problem is, no one listened to her songs, except one old guy with a cane. Not exactly Carnegie Hall. She tried not to let it bother her, singing just for him, waiting for a change in his expression. Sadness, maybe. It might be there. Probably not.

No one wants to hear sad songs anymore.

She walked. The rain fell. She cried. What was she doing with her life? Living alone. Waiting for . . . what?

By the time she reached home, she was determined to turn things around. She wasn’t going to think of herself as old anymore. She was going to do exactly what she wanted to do. Laugh. Cry. Dance. Sing in the street. Even if no one listened, she’d do it for herself.

The next morning, she searched the back of her closet and found a pretty yellow flowered dress and some white sandals from back in her hippy days. She took her guitar to the train station and looked for the perfect spot. A place with light and shadow. A backdrop of blue sky. A white stucco wall. The shimmer or red leaves.

She sat on the wall, closed her eyes and listened to the scattered voices of people passing by. Children laughing. The flapping wings of a bird. She felt a cool breeze touch her face, then the warmth of the sun. The weight of the guitar on her lap. The steely pressure of the strings on her finger tips.

She waited for a song to arrive. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Yes. Perfect.

She kept her eyes closed and sang, I Wish I Had a River, like she used to sing, centering herself in the song, centering herself in the scene.

When she finished, she heard a strange silence. Like she’d been transported to an empty field, with a breeze blowing through tall grass. She opened her eyes and saw that a crowd had gathered around. The morning sun was defining the reds and blues and greens of their clothes, drawing their shadows out long and dark. Edward Hopper, she thought. That’s what it is. We're all in an Edward Hopper scene.