Sitting on the steps in a tucked corner of Plaza de Espana in Seville. Horse-drawn carriages clatter through the square under a partly cloudy sky. Bubbles float through the air carried by intermittent gusts of wind. In the distance, a man playing a cajon drum echoes across the plaza to where I am sitting. It’s hard to know what is being played because directly behind me is a man finger plucking the most beautiful Spanish guitar. His bike rests against the wall behind him—another musician amongst this landscape. He sits with one leg crossed over the other; leaning into each pluck and strum. His furrowed brow follows the rise and fall of his playing. His soul filling the space of these brick and tiled walls. Somewhere else applause erupts, but it’s not for him. It is only me enjoying this beauty in a small corner of the grand plaza.