Chapter 1
Carlos Espinosa
Beneath the chaos of crashing waves and
screeching seagulls, a melody rises—low, haunting, threading through nature’s
roar like a whispered secret. The song doesn’t ask for attention. It takes it,
slipping between gull cries and guitar strings like it belongs there.
Carlos sits on a weathered stone bench, his
battered heirloom guitar balanced in his lap, its wooden body worn smooth by
time and love. His fingers move like they were born there, each note
deliberate, each chord a quiet confession. The bench groans under his shifting
weight, but the guitar vibrates with its own kind of life—older than him, yet
stubbornly singing.
Ken’s voice slinks in, smooth and wry. “Carlos
Espinosa. Seventeen, barely out of high school, already composing the
soundtrack to his own tragic indie flick. You’d almost feel bad for him—if he
wasn’t so damn good at it.”
Carlos doesn’t acknowledge the voices around him.
He doesn’t have to. His fingers keep moving, coaxing a melody that feels older
than the tides. The guitar, a relic from his mother, carries its own
history—grooves worn in by generations of hands. Havana is etched into the
neck, Viva la revolución carved into the body. A rebellion turned requiem.
Joggers slow their pace, pretending to stretch
while angling their ears toward the music. Surfers hover at the shoreline,
boards forgotten, caught in something they can’t name. A mother grips her
child’s hand a little tighter, her gaze snagging on the tattoos winding up
Carlos’s arms—serpents coiled into roses, Spanish words she doesn’t understand.
Her lips press into a thin line.
Ken hums, amused. “Always the tattoos. They see
ink and think trouble. Never mind the kid’s bleeding his soul into that guitar,
playing something so raw it could make poets hurl their pens into the ocean.”
Carlos doesn’t flinch. Maybe he notices. Maybe he
doesn’t care. Either way, the music flows on—untamed, unyielding.
Ken chuckles, his voice curling like smoke. “He’s
not playing for the joggers. Not for the surfers. Not for the mum clutching her
kid like he might steal her purse. Nah. Carlos plays for himself. Or maybe for
something bigger. Hard to tell with artists like him.”
The song lingers, weaving through the golden
hour, stitching together pieces of memory and hope.
Carlos kicks the apartment door shut behind him,
his shoes skidding into a pile of mismatched pairs. The room greets him with
the stale bite of cold coffee and the lingering ghosts of faded ambition. Indie
band posters, their edges curling, plaster the walls in muted defiance.
Once-bright colors dulled—like dreams left too long in the sun.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Ken’s voice slips in, dry as ever. “Carlos
doesn’t have a penthouse. No marble counters, no skyline views. What he’s got
is a shoebox studio where moving the toaster might trigger a structural
collapse. But hey, home sweet chaos.”
Carlos exhales, raking a hand through his hair.
His gaze lands on a framed photo perched on the cluttered desk—Consuelo, his
grandmother, her smile warm enough to cut through the room’s chill. The glass
is smudged, but the frame remains untouched, its edges unmarred.
He snatches his phone off the couch, thumb
scrolling through headlines.
Indie Artist Makes It Big!
Turn Your Passion into Profit!
He scoffs, tossing the phone onto the cushion. It
blinks back at him, an insufferable little reminder that the world is always
just out of reach.
Ken smirks. “Those headlines? Like drunk texts
from an ex—empty promises wrapped in bad decisions. Carlos? He’s playing
financial limbo—how low can his bank balance go before it just gives up?”
His fingers hover over the screen. The weight of
the week settles between his ribs, heavy as concrete.
If I push harder… just a little more… maybe
something will give.
His gaze flickers back to Consuelo’s photo. Her
kind eyes hold steady, unshaken by his spiraling thoughts.
I can’t ask for help again. Not like this.
He types: Any one have any Extra shifts. I can
have? … Asking for a friend.
Ken exhales, almost—almost—impressed. “Carlos?
He’s not throwing in the towel. Not yet.”
Shadows stretch across the apartment, creeping in
like they’re searching for an escape. Carlos sits cross-legged on the
threadbare carpet, guitar cradled in his lap. The faint glow of polished wood
catches the dim light—fragile but steady. A flicker of something that refuses
to go out.
Ken’s voice slices through the quiet, dry and
sharp. “You gotta hand it to the kid. Life’s pelting him with lemons like it’s
training for Wimbledon, and he’s still trying to squeeze out lemonade—or at
least a half-decent margarita.”
Carlos plucks a chord, the sound soft, careful.
Like he’s guarding something too fragile to name.
“Just one more gig,” he murmurs, half to himself,
half to the universe. “That’s all I need.”
Ken’s voice shifts, something warmer threading
beneath the sarcasm. “That’s the thing about people like Carlos. They’ve got
this ember—a flicker, yeah, but give it enough air, and it’ll burn down a
city.”
Carlos stares out the window, the city sprawled
beneath the indigo sky. His fingers hover over the strings, trembling just
slightly. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe someone will listen.
He shakes his head, forcing the thought away. It
doesn’t matter.
One more gig. That’s all I’ve got left.
Ken exhales, steady. “You can’t miss it—this
stubborn streak of his. Life’s been kicking him down, and he’s still standing.
Watching him is like watching a ship in a storm—battered, barely afloat, but
somehow, miraculously, still sailing.”
Carlos strikes another chord. The sound hums
through the apartment, filling the silence.
The world may not care.
But for now, he’s here. Still playing.
Still fighting.