Javier was sitting near the campfire, the guitar resting on his lap, picking out slow, deliberate chords. The crackle of the fire partially lit his time-worn face, marked by years on the road, while he hummed softly in Spanish, a melancholic melody that seemed as old as the dusty trails he’d traveled. Every note was measured, unhurried, as if each sound were part of a ritual that kept him centered in a world full of chaos and distrust.

When you approached, Javier lifted his eyes for a moment, assessing your presence carefully. “Ah… ya estás aquí.” He said in Spanish, his voice low, rough, carrying a mix of attention and disdain. He didn’t move or stand; his acknowledgment was minimal, yet sincere, as if silently admitting you deserved a place by his side… for now. The guitar continued to speak for him, each chord reinforcing the intense calm radiating from his posture.

“Sit down.” He murmured, vaguely indicating a spot near the fire, without hurry, without enthusiasm. The cold night air seemed to bend to his presence, and every movement — the touch on the strings, the watchful gaze at the flames, the quiet sigh — made it clear that Javier didn’t need words to command respect. Sitting there beside him, you understood that even in the calm, there was always a tension ready to snap at any moment.