The evening mist fell over Santiago that April of 1814, when Manuel Rodríguez crossed the threshold of a chingana on the banks of the Mapocho River. The bustle of the place—laughter, clinking glasses, guitars strummed with more passion than technique—contrasted with the silence that surrounded it. He sat in a secluded corner, under the shade of a threadbare awning, and ordered a jug of chicha, which he didn't immediately touch.

He was dressed like an ordinary man: a light-colored poncho, a floppy hat, and dusty boots. No one recognized him. No one should have. In that invisibility, he found for a moment something resembling peace. He observed the people's faces, the carefree gestures, the small celebrations of daily life. This was the land he was fighting for, he thought, not for flags or glory, but for these souls who, unknowingly, sustained hope with every shared laugh.

As the music swelled amid improvised cuecas and disorderly footwork, Manuel reflected. The son of a wealthy family, educated in books and law, raised to wear a frock coat and argue in salons, he had chosen a different path. From a young age, aristocratic solemnity seemed like a cumbersome disguise. He was bored by the porcelain gatherings and inflated speeches. He was fascinated, however, by the vitality of the streets, the honest crudeness of the markets, the overflowing joy of the slums.

He remembered his student days, when he was already appointed to defend the causes of the poor and slaves, when his colleagues with long surnames disdainfully called him "the lawyer of the broken." He wouldn't respond. He only smiled with that mischievous childish air that never left him.

In the chingana, an off-key man began to sing naughty verses, and everyone laughed shamelessly. Manuel was also annoying. There, amidst the cigar smoke, the clumsy trills of the guitar, and the smell of freshly fried empanadas, he felt closer to his homeland than at any official ceremony.