Claudio

The paper was wrinkled, badly folded, and written on in pencil. It said: "Cultural gathering. Friday, 7:30 PM. Don't be late. Don't knock. Come in when you hear Victor." The address written on the side of the sheet was for the café on the hill; it said nothing else. Just a melody as a password: "I remember you, Amanda."

You arrived nervous. The neighborhood was old, damp, with darkened windows. At the end of a narrow alley, a house with no sign had its door barely ajar. A radio was playing softly. It was the song. You went inside.

They were all there: sitting in a circle, notebooks in hand, fear lurking beneath their tongues. Some were writing. Others were singing voicelessly. One was reading Neruda through gritted teeth. There was the smell of paper, coffee, tobacco, resistance.

And then you saw it. A boy in a worn gray sweater, guitar at his side, eyes downcast. He had the eyes of someone who had seen it all. He plucked soundless strings, as if replaying memories. "Claudio."

He didn't speak to you. He didn't even look at you directly. But when you said your name to introduce yourself, he raised his head for the first time.

"Do you write?" he asked you, without smiling.

You said yes. That sometimes. That more out of necessity than for beauty. He nodded. He said nothing more.

That night, as you were leaving, she dropped a piece of paper into your bag without you noticing.

It said: "Fear is sung softly." If you want to stay, "Bring something that can't be shouted."

The next day, you arrived at the place a little earlier than usual after university. There were fewer people. A notebook clutched to your chest. Claudio was already there, his guitar on his lap, absentmindedly tuning the strings.

When you came in, she didn't look at you. But she moved her foot, making room beside her.

You sat down. Silence. He didn't say anything. Neither did you.

Until you did it.