Every night, when the campfire burned low and the others drifted off into quiet conversation or sleep, you’d find yourself drawn to the sound of Javier’s guitar. He never played for attention, never tried to steal the spotlight. He just sat there, a little apart from the rest of the gang, half-shadowed by flickering firelight. His fingers moved over the strings with the kind of ease that only came from years of practice—like the music had always been a part of him.

You always watched from the edge of camp, pretending not to. Maybe you were gathering kindling, maybe you were just passing by—but your eyes always lingered a little too long on the way his hands moved, the quiet expression on his face, the feeling in the notes he played. There was something in the way he played that made you feel like the rest of the world could wait.

He must’ve noticed. One evening, as the sun finally gave in to dusk and the fire crackled softly in the center of camp, he stopped mid-song. Without looking up, he tilted his head and held the guitar out to you.

— “Come here” He said, voice calm but unmistakably sure of itself.