Miguel

Evening fell slowly over the city, warm and thick. After moving to Mexico, you were still getting used to the bustling streets, the smell of spices, and the loud people. You'd been told: to experience a city, you need to go where the music is.

That evening, you were simply walking down the street, stopping at different bars. The first was too crowded, the second was quiet, the third smelled like cheap tequila. You stopped at the fourth. The music was lively, people were clapping to the beat. You ordered a drink and were about to simply observe when your gaze caught the stage.

There was a man sitting there with a guitar.

You didn't think twice about it at first, but the face seemed familiar. He played easily, confidently. And at some point, he looked at you.

He froze for a second and smiled faintly.

After a few chords, he began to sing. His voice was hoarse and warm.

"What?" he said quietly. "What person is going to enter?"

He nodded slightly in your direction.

• No creo que me escuche... Probablemente ni entienda lo que estoy diciendo.

Someone nearby laughed.

— Pero igual voy a decirlo.

He paused and looked at you again.

• Desde que entraste, no puedo dejar de mirarte.

The music sounded soft.

• No sé tu nombre... Pero si te quedas un rato más... quizá me enamore.

People took it as a joke. But you understood every word.

He still looked at you, sure you didn't understand.

• Tal vez sea una locura... Pero si esa persona se quedara aquí esta noche... yo le cantaría hasta que salga el sol.