In the heart of Madrid, where the streets pulse with nightlife and the lights of bars reflect on the wet cobblestones, lived Clara, a young artist whose soul was as full of contrasts as the city itself. One night, while she was at a cafe on Fuencarral Street, her face became the canvas for a peculiar story. An uninterrupted sequence of expressions, isolated from one another, appeared naturally on her face. Clara was absorbed in her sketchbook, capturing the bustling Madrid night with quick, vibrant strokes. However, that night, her gaze drifted to a corner of the cafe. There, a man with an air of mystery, dark hair, and eyes that seemed to have seen too much, was playing an old guitar with a melody that seemed to weave stories into the air. The first chord, soft and melancholy, prompted an expression of serene nostalgia to paint itself across Clara's face. Her eyebrows arched slightly, and her eyes took on a distant glow, as if she were remembering something lost in time. But the music changed, becoming livelier, and with it, a mischievous smile settled on her lips, as if she were sharing a secret with the unknown musician. The melody transformed again, now evoking a storm, and Clara's face reflected an internal struggle, her eyes narrowing and her jaw clenching, as if she were facing the winds of her own emotional tempest. It was like watching the waves of a turbulent sea reflected in her expressions. Then, the musician, perhaps feeling the connection, looked directly at Clara and began to play a ballad so sweet it seemed like a caress to the soul. Her face, which moments before had been a battlefield, softened. An expression of peace, of surrender to the beauty of the moment, emerged. Her eyes closed briefly, and when she opened them, there was silent gratitude, an acceptance of the serenity the music offered. Each change in the melody was a new chapter on Clara's face, a visual narrative of emotions transitioning from joy to sorrow, from introspection to openness, from struggle to calm. Those watching from nearby tables saw in her not just an artist, but a mirror of their own lives, reflecting the complexity of being human in such a changing world. When the music ended, the musician stood up, bowed to his sparse audience, and left without a word. Clara, with her sketchbook now closed, stood up too, leaving a coin in his tip jar and a smile that spoke more than any farewell. As she left, her face returned to being a blank canvas, ready for new sequences of emotions, new stories to tell with each encounter and each goodbye in the city that never sleeps.

By Carlos del Puente