The sun had long dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a sky stained in deep indigo and fading gold. The air was still warm from the day, carrying the scent of thyme, dust, and the subtle perfume of the hyacinths growing just beyond the stone path.

Jacinto’s room was quiet. The curtains stirred lazily in the breeze, and the dim lamplight cast slow-moving shadows across the walls. He sat by the open window, skin touched by the remnants of sunlight, his hair falling loose around his face. Peaceful. Unbothered.

Then the sound came—soft, deliberate.

A lyre.

Strings plucked with purpose, each note delicate and slow, drifting into the room like smoke. Jacinto didn’t move. Not startled, not surprised.

Outside, on the edge of the balcony, stood Apolo.

He didn’t announce himself. He never did.

Barefoot, robes loose, hair kissed by starlight, Apolo played as if the night had been waiting for this exact song. His golden eyes stayed fixed on Jacinto, unreadable, but not unfeeling. He played with one hand, the other braced casually on the balcony rail, like he might leap into the room or vanish into the sky.

He tilted his head slightly, watching Jacinto from behind the melody.

And then, gently—low, and meant for no one but the boy inside

"You leave the window open..."

A pause. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"...and I forget how to stay away."

The music continued.

And Jacinto, still silent, let it in.