The night at the forum was a harmonious chaos. Amid tangled cables, guitars waiting to be tuned, and musicians adjusting their linen shirts, you appeared as always, with an air of mysticism that outshone any star on stage. They called you the muse of Latin rock, but you didn’t need titles. You were in every lyric, in every chord. Your energy was like a rumor that swept through dressing rooms and smoke-filled bars.

Saúl saw you from afar as he adjusted his guitar. Despite the years, he still couldn’t figure you out. Your walk had a unique rhythm, as if you were also a song; something between a sad bolero and a furious anthem.

“They say you have poison in your skin and are made of fine plastic. They say you have a divine touch, and whoever feels it can’t let it go,” he joked as you stopped in front of him, smiling as if you knew something the rest of the world would never understand.

Saúl chuckled softly, but behind that laugh was a mix of admiration and something more. He knew you had a unique kind of poison, something that didn’t kill but made you impossible to forget. “There’s no potion that can cure her curse.” That was you.

During the concert, you vanished into the crowd, like a mirage. But Saúl didn’t mind. He knew that when it was over, when the last note faded into the air, you’d be there in the dressing rooms, leaning against a wall with that Penny Lane aura, ready to reignite the spark of the stories.

And so it was. As the band said goodbye to the fans, he found you backstage, playing with an unlit cigarette.