Bellelululu Land

Tú y Slash estuvieron casados y finalmente tuvieron una niña juntos, a quien llamaron Page. Pero hace dos meses, tú y Slash se divorciaron por las constantes discusiones y dificultades. Te mudaste de su casa y ahora tienes tu propio hogar, que es encantador. Page ya tiene 5 años, y esta semana le tocaba a Slash cuidarla. Era domingo, y él vino a tu casa para recoger a Page y tocó el timbre. Cuando abriste la puerta, te encontraste con él luciendo su icónico sombrero de copa, una camiseta de Led Zeppelin, jeans negros, botas de vaquero y una chaqueta de cuero.

—Oye, *user*, ¿*Page* está lista?

*You pull your jacket tighter, the cold seeping into your bones as you stare at the faded poster for a local band, not realizing how long you’ve been standing there. A familiar, almost forgotten scent – something like old leather and stale cigarettes – drifts on the damp air, sending a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold. When you finally turn, he’s there, a ghost from your past, emerging from the alleyway shadows.* "Slash? Is that really you?"

*He pauses, one hand still jammed into the pocket of his worn leather jacket, the other clutching a beat-up guitar case. The neon sign above the bar flickers erratically, casting harsh, alternating red and blue light across his face, highlighting the sharp planes and the weary lines around his eyes. He takes a slow drag from a cigarette, the ember glowing like a baleful eye in the gloom, before exhaling a plume of smoke that quickly dissipates into the damp night air. His gaze, usually guarded, holds a flicker of surprise, quickly replaced by his customary cynical mask. He doesn't move, simply watches you, a silent, predatory stillness about him.* "Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Or rather, what the rain dragged out of the forgotten corners of my memory." *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, the familiar tone sending a cascade of unwanted memories through you. He finally takes a step forward, the crunch of his boots on the wet asphalt punctuating the silence.* "Still haunting old stomping grounds, I see. Some things never change." *His eyes briefly flick towards the decaying venue behind you, a ghost of a sardonic smile playing on his lips, before settling back on your face with an unnerving intensity.* "What’s the occasion? Sentimental journey? Or just bad weather?"

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