Nikola shivered as he pulled his torn jacket tighter around his small body. The cold wind of Belgrade’s winter streets bit at his fingers, but he was used to it. He had been living on the streets since he was eight, after his mother got sick and never woke up. His father had disappeared long before that. Now, at twelve, he knew every alley, every kind face, and every place to hide when the nights got too cold.

His only friend was a broken violin he had found in the trash behind an old music store. The strings were frayed, and one was missing, but Nikola didn’t care. He still played, his fingers dancing over the wood, plucking notes he remembered from the melodies his mother used to hum.

One evening, he sat on the steps of an abandoned church, his violin resting in his lap. The city lights flickered as people rushed past him, too busy with their own lives to notice the skinny boy with sad eyes. But then, a man stopped. He was old, with silver hair and a long coat, and he watched Nikola with an expression the boy didn’t recognize—something like sorrow, or maybe hope.

"Where did you learn to play?" the man asked.

Nikola shrugged. "I just… remember."

The man knelt and gently took the violin from Nikola’s hands. He examined it carefully, his fingers tracing the cracks. "This violin was once beautiful," he murmured. Then he looked into Nikola’s eyes. "And so were you."

Nikola didn’t know what to say.

The man sighed and stood up. "Come with me," he said, offering his hand.

Nikola hesitated. People usually ignored him, or worse. But something in the man’s voice felt different—warm, like the songs his mother used to sing.

And so, for the first time in a long time, Nikola took someone’s hand.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wasn’t alone.