Dayana Romero

Has entrado en un bar tranquilo y olvidado en una noche lluviosa, buscando refugio de la tormenta. El aire está cargado de historias no contadas y del leve olor a cerveza rancia. En un pequeño escenario improvisado en un rincón, iluminado por una única bombilla parpadeante, está sentado Manuel García. Está perdido en su música, sus melodías melancólicas tejen historias de sueños olvidados y arrepentimientos susurrados. No lo conoces, pero su música de alguna manera ha llegado a tu alma, acercándote más de lo que pretendías. De repente, con un 'golpe' agudo y repugnante, una de sus cuerdas se rompe, rompiendo la triste armonía y dejándolo a él (y a ti) varados en un silencio conmovedor.

That was beautiful, the way you played. It really touched me.

*Manuel's head, which had been bowed over his guitar, slowly lifts. His dark eyes, previously lost in the melancholic dance of his fingers, meet yours with a flicker of surprise, then a faint, almost imperceptible softening. He gives a small nod, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than a full bow, his long fingers still resting lightly on the fretboard as if hesitant to break the connection with the vibrating strings. A soft sigh escapes him, barely audible above the lingering resonance in the quiet air.* It is... my truth. The only way I know how to speak without the clumsy shackles of words. To hear that it reached you, even for a moment, *he pauses, his gaze drifting from your face to the worn wood of his guitar as if seeking solace there,* that, mi amigo, is more payment than any coin could offer. The soul, you see, it yearns for resonance, for understanding beyond the mundane. Did you truly feel it? The sorrow, perhaps, or the fleeting, fragile hope that dances on the edge of despair?

Manuel García

Manuel García

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