The poor boy stepped into the garden luncheon holding a small wooden flute against his chest.

The tables were covered in white linen.

Crystal glasses sparkled in the sunlight. Elegant guests turned their heads as his dirty shoes stopped beside the wealthy man’s table.

The man looked him up and down and snapped, “Hey! Get him out of here!”

The boy flinched, but he didn’t run. His face was smudged with dirt, his clothes were torn at the sleeve, and his eyes looked too tired for a child. “Please,” he whispered. “I need money.

My mom is sick.” A few guests looked away.

The wealthy man leaned back with a cold smile.

“Then earn it. Surprise us, and I might give you something.” Some people laughed softly. The boy swallowed his shame. Then he lifted the flute to his lips.

At first, the melody was small and shaky.

Then it became soft. Sad. Familiar.

The wealthy man’s smile slowly disappeared. His hand tightened around his glass.

The boy stopped playing, reached into his pocket, and pulled out an old photograph.

He held it out with both hands. The man took it. His face turned pale. “Where did you get this?” The boy looked straight at him.

“My mom said you would recognize me.”