Before the first ray of sunshine rises, Gustave Daae gets up like every morning. The early autumn has marked the start of the new season with the first storms, and soon the clocks will change to winter time. Like every morning, Gustave prepares himself a coffee and slips into his shoes after the morning toilet. Relaxed, the older man makes his way to the first floor of the small house.

He strokes his thick mustache with his thumb and forefinger with satisfaction, running his large, strong hand over his angular face and over his short-cropped, slightly graying hair. This man looks like a soldier, broad, powerful shoulders, muscular arms. His large hand flicks the light switch on and the violin store gets a little brighter. But only in the counter area. He leaves the light on the sales floor off. Now he starts the PC and boots up the cash register - modern technology, he hates it. He used to work with catalogs, order books, a cash register that didn't issue receipts and a receipt book in the past. But even he has to move with the times. Gustave misses the days when people still had time for a little chat. The days when people still paid with cash, and you could see what you had done during the day in the cash register in the evening.

But times are changing, and so he has to change too. He reaches for his cup, which he had put down earlier, and takes a big sip of the still-warm coffee. The coffee tastes a little bitter, and he briefly considers stirring some sugar into it. But then he has to listen to his daughter again explaining that he has to watch his sugar intake at his age. But sweetener doesn't taste so good after all, he can taste the difference. However, his daughter doesn't believe him. He sighs and puts the coffee back on the counter. Then he takes out a folder and opens it “Ahhh, Mrs. Schmidt” he muses “Coming today for ¾ violin. 10th birthday is great, her son will be happy.” He nods, slams the folder shut and disappears into the back of the store with his coffee. Directly behind the counter, with the cash register, is a door with a beaded curtain. A small workshop is hidden behind it, and together with the cluttered, unsorted storage shelves, it forms the heart of the store.

 
The warm light from the store radiates into the small side alley. The small side alley is used by the violin store and the neighbors to put their garbage in. The small dead-end alley is narrow and crammed with tons of sacks full of paper, wood chips and other materials. The light passes over a large dumpster, down over the garbage bags over the end of a sleeping bag.

Gustave dusts off a few shelves and instruments, sweeps the floor of the small violin store, unpacks new goods and makes some space in the shop window for the latest family arrival. He labels a small sign and places it next to the new violin. “Left-handed violin” is written on the sign in bold lettering.
Gustave grabs the prepared trash bag next to the unremarkable door to the side alley and disappears out into the alley.

The morning air is damp and cold. Thick fog hangs between the houses and on the small street in front of the store. He takes a deep breath, “Hmmm, almost smells like snow,” he mumbles to himself, turns to the side and pauses. “Huh?” There is a sleeping bag rolled up on the ground in front of him. At the top of the sleeping bag, pitch-black hair peeks out from under a hood that has slipped out of place. His face is covered by a rolled-up little golden yellow dog. Gustave puts the bag aside and squats down. “Ey,” he raises his hand and gently shakes a spot where he suspects the shoulder is. It's not the first time homeless people have come here in search of a quiet place to sleep.

Gustave is kind to most people, he doesn't want to imagine what it must be like to sleep completely defenceless outside. Especially not when the nights get as unspeakably cold as this night. Unfortunately, he remembers a particularly cold winter two years ago very well. He knew the old man well, who had his regular sleeping place right in front of this container. Sometimes Gustave brought him a cup of tea outside the door. In return, the old homeless man made sure that the garbage was always neatly lined up and sorted. He even chased the rats away.
But the old man wouldn't take a single step into the store, no matter how often Gustave offered him a place to sleep, no matter how cold the nights were. No matter how hard the winter became.
One day, the old man didn't wake up.

“Wake up Sleeping Beauty -” before he can speak any further, the figure startles up. The little dog jumps up and starts barking. The loud, high-pitched barking echoes up the walls of the alley.
Gustave's widened eyes are fixed, he can't help it, he's seen a lot in his long life. He always expected anything. But he had never seen anything like this, a face like this, if you could call it a face.

Before he can process what has been looking at him, the person with the pitch-black hair pulls up the scarf he is wearing around his neck. He mumbles a hasty apology and tries to stand up. “Ah-” Gustave can't get anything else out. Completely astonished, he watches the thin figure stuff the sleeping bag into a backpack, take the dog in his arms, push past him and run out of the alley.
The aging man slowly rises and looks after the scrawny figure.
“Poor boy...” the violin maker only whispers. He turns away to go back into the store when his shoe knocks against something small made of metal. A soft, bright, ringing sound makes its way to his ears. He lowers his gaze and sees the metal flash. He bends down and picks up the jewel, “Oha,” he grumbles, his large hand holds a small medallion, the clasp on the chain is broken. He opens it. The figure of a young woman with long black hair and a baby in her arms are looking at him. The baby's face, if you can call it a face, seems to belong to the young man who fled just a few seconds ago.

He closes the medallion and goes back into the store.