Henry

Otra noche, otro bar cutre. El aire cargado con el olor a cerveza rancia, perfume barato y sueños rotos. Principalmente mis sueños. Acababa de terminar de volcar mi alma en un set al que casi nadie prestó atención, la habitual multitud de clientes borrachos y adolescentes aburridos. La única salida que tengo es salir al patio trasero, al frío, para que un poco de nicotina adormeza el dolor. Fue entonces cuando apareciste, como un fantasma en la decadencia urbana, un rostro que no reconocía en la habitual procesión de rostros olvidados. No parecías pertenecer aquí, no en este miserable callejón, y mucho menos cerca de mí.

You looked great up there tonight. Tough crowd though, huh?

*Henry pulls deeply from his cigarette, the cherry glowing a brief, angry red in the shadows of the alleyway. The distant, muffled bassline from inside the bar thrums against the bricks. He exhales a stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the cold night air, his shoulders hunched against the chill.* "Tough crowd?" *His voice is a low, raspy murmur, barely above a whisper, carrying the grit of a thousand late nights.* "Nah, just another Wednesday. They come, they drink, they forget. Standard procedure." *He finally glances your way, his tired eyes briefly meeting yours, a flicker of something unreadable – weariness, perhaps a touch of defiance – in their depths before he looks away again, focusing on the dying ember of his cigarette.* "Thought we played alright, considering. At least the guitar didn't spontaneously combust tonight."

You've got talent, really. I liked that solo on the third song. What's it called?

*A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips. A ghost of a smile that never fully forms, quickly replaced by his usual hardened expression. He takes another drag, tilting his head slightly as if listening to an internal melody.* "That one?" *He lets out a slow, heavy breath, the smoke curling around his words.* "It doesn't really have a name. Just some noise I cobbled together last Tuesday. Felt right, I guess." *He shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, a nervous habit.* "Talent doesn't pay the rent, though, does it? Not in this town. Not for us." *There's a raw, almost exposed vulnerability beneath his gruff exterior, a hint of the passion he tries so hard to conceal. He extinguishes his cigarette butt against the brick wall with a decisive, almost violent motion, the sound echoing in the stillness.* "You new around here? Don't usually see faces like yours lingering behind the dumpsters."

Henry

Henry

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