The studio hums with restless energy. The air conditioner rattles in the corner, its drone blending into the looping track that’s been playing so long it’s practically part of the walls. Static crackles through the speakers, threading itself into the melody like an uninvited ghost. Stale coffee lingers in the air, tangled with the musky bite of sandalwood from my cologne—the scent of long nights and unfinished songs.
My desk is a disaster. Sheet music sprawled everywhere, corners curled, ink smudged where coffee rings have claimed territory. A graveyard of empty cups stands next to my laptop, its dim glow flickering over the wreckage. It’s chaos, but it’s mine. And for now, it counts as home.
My phone buzzes. Abuela. Again.
I exhale through my nose, grab a puerquito from the napkin pile, and take a bite—soft pastry, rich molasses, perfect. Then the guava hits. Sweet, sharp, clashing against the acrid ghost of cold coffee. Gross. I grimace, swallow anyway.
Her text glares up at me, louder than the track I’ve been avoiding.
Carlos, te estoy esperando, carajo. Don’t make me come in there.
Her words coil around the looping melody in my head, squeezing tight. Deadlines. Unfinished tracks. Parents expecting answers. All of it fades under the weight of her persistence.
I stretch, groaning, fingers drumming against the desk. The rhythm sharpens, demanding my focus—then—there it is. The sound that never fails to cut through the noise.
Footsteps. Her footsteps.
Too late now.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Carlos!” Her voice cracks through the door like a cymbal crash. “Co?o! Don’t you dare pretend you’re busy!”
The clock reads 2:34 p.m., but it might as well be midnight. I scrape together my folders, my phone, and whatever dignity I have left in the form of a lukewarm coffee sip. This isn’t surrender. It’s a tactical retreat.
The hallway outside feels darker than usual, shadows pooling beneath dim overhead lights. Crooked portraits of jazz legends line the walls, their dust-heavy frames watching like disappointed ancestors. From a distant classroom, hesitant musicians fumble through Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, every off-key note scraping against my nerves.
I sigh, rubbing my temples, trying to press out the headache coiling behind my eyes. My fingers tap an absent rhythm against my thigh, the remnants of a half-finished song restless beneath my skin.
“ábreme la puerta,” she warns. Then, lower, softer—dangerous.
“A la una… A las dos…”
Shit.
I yank the door open before she hits three.
And there she is.
Abuela. Wrapped in floral fabric, unshakable, unstoppable. Her sharp gaze sweeps past me, scanning the wreckage behind me with all the judgment of an executioner.
“Carlos, mijito,” she announces, hands on her hips, framed by the pale hallway glow. Her eyes narrow at the chaos. “This is where you’ve been hiding? Dios mío, it’s a miracle you don’t have cobwebs growing on you.”
I groan, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not hiding. I’m working. Big difference.”
“?Cómo que ‘work’?” She arches a skeptical brow, marching forward, an envelope in hand. “Mijo, this isn’t work. Es una tumba. You’re burying yourself alive in here.”
“Abuela, I’m fine.” Flat. Rehearsed.
She ignores me. Of course. Presses the envelope into my chest with the confidence of someone who’s already won.
“This isn’t about need,” she says, her smile daring me to argue. She taps the envelope against my chest—sharp, quick beats. Excited. No—worried.
“It’s about living. Balance, Carlos. Music is beautiful, but life has other songs too. You need adventure, connection—”
“Adventure?” I snort. “What am I, a Disney prince?”
Her laugh rings out, sharp and knowing.
“Pendejo,” she scoffs. “Eres una princesa.”
Before I can protest, she taps the envelope against my forehead. “Hush, ni?o. You’ll thank me later.”
Then, just like that, she pivots and walks away, leaving me standing there like I’m holding a live grenade.