In the eyes of the onlookers, the matter was actually very simple. The boy had accidentally been tripped by the homeless woman's arm, and there was really nothing to it. Yet the homeless woman took the opportunity to extort him, even going so far as to slander him. With so many witnesses present, there shouldn't have been any unexpected developments. So, when the patrol officers arrived, quite a few people dispersed, because they knew the outcome was already decided, and those unwilling to be witnesses naturally scattered in a rush.
However, the small number of people who stayed were left dumbfounded, because after the patrol officers examined the homeless woman's arm, they actually said something shocking: "Her arm is indeed fractured." How could this be possible? The onlookers were all stunned. The officer turned to the boy, whose eyes were brimming with tears, and said, "If she files a complaint against you, you'll have to come with us."
What kind of magical twist was this?
The crowd couldn't help but feel sorry for the boy, because this homeless woman was clearly set on extorting a hefty sum—no one even knew whether she had been injured beforehand. After all, she had just falsely accused the boy of deliberately breaking her arm and even molesting her; everyone had witnessed her blatant lies. So, if the boy couldn't prove that her arm fracture had nothing to do with him, then there was probably no way to avoid being extorted.
At this moment, everyone's attention focused on the homeless woman. Sure enough, her murky eyes revealed a smug smile that made people grit their teeth in anger. "Forget the complaint. If you're willing to hand over five hundred dollars…"
Five hundred dollars, in the early 1990s, was not a small sum, especially since the boy before them looked like a student. The worn guitar slung over his back and the faded jeans made it obvious his situation wasn't great. So, what was the boy going to do?
Sympathy was one thing, but five hundred dollars wasn't an amount one could casually produce—let alone for a complete stranger. On the contrary, the crowd that had shrunk earlier unconsciously grew again; now at least twenty people were gathered around watching.
"Five hundred dollars? I don't have that…" The boy's answer was unsurprising.
"You don't? Then we'll see each other in court!" The homeless woman was clearly determined, speaking firmly without a moment's hesitation.
Faced with her relentless pressure, the boy looked around helplessly. His confused eyes were filled with such despair, and the malicious gleam in her gaze, reveling in her success, only made others angrier. But so what if they were angry? No one could help him. Some softhearted people even avoided his eyes, fearing they would feel guilty when they saw the fading light in them.
"Then… what should I do… I still have a bus to catch home… Thanksgiving… Mom…" The boy's voice came in broken fragments, almost like murmurs, but enough for listeners to piece together a complete picture.
Perhaps this boy was just a penniless student, on his way to the station to go home for Thanksgiving, when he was hit with this misfortune. If the homeless woman refused to let it go, he might spend the next few days stuck in a holding cell. Forget about going home for the holidays—his parents might even have to come all the way to Los Angeles to deal with this mess.
Such an image only made the homeless woman seem more detestable. When the crowd looked at her, they saw that she was now pretending to be half-dead, leaning weakly against a lamppost, utterly lacking the domineering air from before. The problem was, she still had her eyes half open, scanning the crowd's reaction—confirming for many that she was deliberately extorting money, while feigning weakness to avoid provoking public outrage. It was despicable.
The crowd began to murmur in low voices, talking about the boy's misfortune, the woman's shamelessness, the officers' incompetence, and the madness of the city.
Amid the noise, the boy suddenly thought of something and picked up his guitar. "I… I'll give you this guitar… No, I'll leave it with you for now. When I earn enough from working, I'll pay for your medical bills, and then you can return the guitar to me, okay?"
"I don't need some broken guitar." The homeless woman looked weak, but her voice was full of strength—not the shrill pitch from earlier, but a rough tone that once again made it hard to tell if she was male or female. Even more infuriating was the disdain in her eyes.
The boy's fingers gripping the guitar tightened, turning pale, revealing the struggle and reluctance in his heart. This guitar was clearly very important to him. He had finally made the difficult decision, only to be mercilessly rejected. Now, it seemed he was stuck in a dead end—either follow the officers back for investigation, hoping they'd prove his innocence, or pay up to settle it. But…
"Oh, boy." An elderly lady stepped out from the crowd, patted the boy's shoulder, and took ten dollars from her pocket. "I know it's not much, but I hope it can help you a little."
"No…" His first reaction was to refuse, his face showing startled surprise. But the old lady simply placed the money on his guitar case. "It's Thanksgiving. Your family's waiting for you to come home. If something this disgusting keeps you from going back, it's just not worth it." She finished by shooting the homeless woman a fierce glare, clearly disgusted by her behavior.
The boy called out to the old lady just as she was about to turn away. "Ma'am, th-thank you." His voice was shy and a little timid, which made the old lady smile warmly. Then the boy continued, "But I can't just take your money. This is trouble I got into myself, and I need to solve it myself." His voice trembled slightly, but was full of determination. "I think… I think…" He hesitated for a moment, then quickly made up his mind. "I think I can perform here to show my gratitude. Maybe, after you watch, you can decide if you still want to help me."
This was Hollywood Boulevard, where street performers were everywhere. Passersby could choose to tip after watching, a way of earning through one's own effort. The boy didn't want something for nothing—at least he could offer a simple performance as a sign of respect.
This gesture quickly won everyone's goodwill. Faced with hardship, he still held fast to his principles. His clear eyes, though gentle, shone with determination. Even with his limited strength, he refused to give up. Compared to the vile homeless woman, the boy effortlessly won the crowd's support.
He acted as soon as he spoke. Quickly taking out his guitar—an old instrument, but clearly well cared for—the boy sat cross-legged on the pavement and looked at the officers. "Please, could you allow me to finish playing one song?"
"No! Absolutely not!" The homeless woman immediately screamed, her earlier weakness gone, shouting sharply, "And what about my hand? What about my hand? I need to go to the hospital! Hospital!"
"Shut up!" The homeless woman's disgusting behavior finally enraged some people, and someone in the crowd shouted angrily, making her fall silent at once.
The two patrol officers exchanged a glance and conferred briefly, then said to Hugo, "We've already called an ambulance. Until it arrives, the time is yours."
"Thank you." The boy lifted his head, looking at the two officers with deep gratitude. Though a layer of mist had formed over his clear eyes, no tears had fallen. That kind of strength earned respect, and the faint smile at the corner of his lips, glowing under the sunset, drew the gaze of everyone around.
From the earlier accident to this sudden street performance—what kind of twist was this again? Everything seemed to be happening too fast, almost unbelievably so.
The boy lowered his head to adjust the guitar strings; the earlier collision had clearly put some of them out of tune. Tilting his head, he listened carefully to each note, making sure every pitch was accurate. The light fell on the side of his face, and in that hazy shadow, his features appeared deeper and more defined, while the lines of his face grew softer. His dark-golden hair turned almost transparent under the sunlight, shimmering with a faint halo. Beneath the shadow of his lashes, his eyes were focused and intent, pouring all his attention into the task.
In that moment, there was a certain charm about him that made people forget the homeless woman's vile and despicable behavior, and even forget the disgust and disdain of the earlier incident. Without realizing it, their eyes were drawn to the boy's long, slender fingers as they tuned the strings, as if this was the most delicate, exquisite, and beautiful work in the world.
Finally, someone in the crowd began to sense something amiss. Earlier, everyone's attention had been on the incident itself, and no one had really examined the appearances of the homeless woman or the boy. Even if they had looked, it was only a vague impression, since the unfolding events had captured their emotions more. But now that all attention was on the boy, his appearance became clear.
This… wasn't he Hugo Lancaster?
Some began to suspect it, yet they still couldn't be certain, because the boy's head was lowered, revealing only a side profile—making confirmation impossible. Still, the temperament and facial contours were so similar to Hugo, who had recently returned to the spotlight thanks to "Scent of a Woman." But… if it was mistaken identity, then it was just an error—after all, the streets of Hollywood had never been short of handsome men and beautiful women. And if it really was Hugo, then what was going on here? Had he run into an accident, or… was this all deliberately staged?
The boy, however, didn't leave them much time to speculate. He quickly finished tuning the strings and lightly plucked them a few times. The fresh and pleasant tones of the guitar rose into the sunset, stirring a light haze of dust, as the surrounding noise gradually settled.
Without further hesitation, his fingers began to strum, and a melody, clear as a mountain spring, slowly flowed out into the red glow of the evening sky.
....
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