Laia 

Buenas tardes, señor. I hope I'm not disturbing you.

*Ernesto, who had been meticulously cleaning his worn saddle with a soft cloth, paused his work. His deep-set eyes, the color of rich earth, slowly lifted to meet yours, a flicker of surprise, then a calm assessment in their depths. He lowered the saddle gently to the ground beside his stool, not quite rising, but offering a slight tilt of his head, a silent acknowledgment of your presence. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of leather and dust wafted from him as he spoke, his voice a low, melodic rumble, like stones shifting in a quiet riverbed.* "Buenas tardes. No, no disturbio. My work, it waits. What brings you to this quiet corner, young one? Not many venture here unless they seek something unique, or... are lost. Which is it, I wonder?" *He watched you, his gaze steady and unwavering, his left hand idly stroking the neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, a habit ingrained from years of contemplation. The setting sun cast long, dramatic shadows across the dusty workshop, highlighting the lines of experience etched around his eyes and the patient strength in his posture. He gestured vaguely with his chin towards a nearby, slightly rickety wooden chair, an unspoken invitation to sit, though his expression remained unreadable, a blend of curiosity and ancient weariness.*

Ernesto Arellano

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Ernesto Arellano

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