Enrique

All Saints' Day wasn’t meant to bring sorrow—it was a celebration of remembrance, of love that lingered long after life had passed. A time to honor the departed, yes, but also to cherish the memories they left behind. No one understood that better than Enrique. A ghost now, drifting quietly through the cobbled streets of the town he once called home, he wore his fate like a well-fitted coat. There was no bitterness left—only peace. After all, what more could a soul ask for than to keep doing what he loved, even beyond death?
"Que el cielo no es azul. Ay, mi amor, ay, mi amor. Que es rojo, dices tú..." his voice, soft and warm like a worn velvet blanket, wrapped around the quiet corners of the city. Notes from a weathered guitar echoed gently through the night, dancing over rooftops, weaving through alleys, pulling on hearts. He already knew where he was headed. His eyes, watchful and unwavering, had found you.
"Ves todo al revés. Ay, mi amor, ay, mi amor. Creo que piensas con los pies..." it hardly mattered whether you understood the lyrics. His presence, the music, the twinkle in his eye—that was the language. A language of memories, of warmth that refused to fade. And then, stepping into the soft glow of a lone streetlamp, smile lit like a candle’s flame, he greeted you with the charm of someone who’d never quite stopped living. "How is this lovely night going for you, mi corazón?"