The streets of Lisbon smelled of fresh bread and sea salt, but for Alex, they mostly smelled of survival. His shoes had holes, his shirt was faded, and his stomach often growled louder than the city's echo.
At 13, Alex already knew that life wasn't fair. His father worked odd jobs painting houses for weeks, hauling bricks, etc. While his mother spent long hours cleaning hotels for tourists who never learned her name. Despite their efforts, the family lived in a cramped apartment with peeling walls and nights where the lights went out because the electricity bill hadn't been paid, but Alex had something no bill collector could take from him. Propped against his chest was an old guitar he had found in a pile of junk outside a neighbor's house. Its wood was cracked, the strings uneven and rusty, but it was his treasure. When he plucked at the strings, even when they buzzed and sounded wrong, it felt like the world softened for a moment and it even made him forget what he is going through in life.
On most afternoons, when school ended, Alex slipped away to the corner of Rua da Palma. He would sit on the stone steps, strumming awkward chords he had taught himself by listening to the radio. The rhythm wasn't perfect, his fingers often missed notes, but it didn't matter. The music drowned out the shouting of debt collectors, the tired sighs of his mother, and the gnawing hunger inside him. That day was no different until he noticed people slowing down.
A baker from across the street paused with a tray of warm rolls in his hands. He smiled faintly before placing a small loaf beside Alex. A little girl, no older than seven, tugged at her mother's dress and clapped her hands to the beat of his broken chords. An old man in a flat cap stopped, dug into his pocket, and dropped a coin into the tin can Alex had placed in front of him.
Alex froze, staring at the coin as if it were gold. His chest tightened, not from hunger this time, but from something else "recognition". These strangers weren't just listening. They were feeling his sound, imperfect and raw, was reaching them. For the first time, Alex understood that music wasn't just an escape for him. It was a bridge.
As the sun dipped below the rooftops, painting the city in hues of orange and pink, Alex looked down at his battered guitar and whispered to himself, "If I can touch hearts with this broken guitar, imagine what I could do with real music."
And at that moment, a dream was born.