I looked at the jukebox. The song had changed— “El Rey” —but the voice was younger. Fiercer. Desperate.
The old jukebox in the back of “El Taquito” restaurant hadn’t worked in fifteen years. But tonight, as a thunderstorm raged over Guadalajara, it lit up by itself.
And in that silence, a voice—neither young nor old, but timeless—whispered directly behind my ear:
The front door of the restaurant swung open. No one was there—but a sombrero floated in mid-air, then settled on a hook. The smell of tequila and earth filled the room.