¡NOVELA FANTASTICA! #5

 In the Back seat 

The sun had barely set when Javier Rojas started his shift, the sky bleeding from orange to bruised purple as he pulled his battered yellow taxi away from the depot. The evening air was warm and thick with the scent of exhaust and distant rain. He rolled down the window, letting the city noise wash over him—honking cars, laughter spilling from bars, the occasional siren wailing in the distance. Normal sounds. Human sounds.

His guitar sat in the passenger seat, its case scuffed from years of being hauled between his cramped apartment and the cab. He'd bought it secondhand in Bogotá twenty-three years ago, back when his fingers were nimble and his dreams were big. Now, at forty-seven, his knuckles ached on cold mornings, and his dreams had narrowed to simple things: paying rent on time, maybe saving enough to fix the cab's rattling muffler.

Javier had driven the night shift for twelve years, and in all that time, he had never gotten used to the silence that settled after midnight. The city transformed when most people slept—neon signs buzzed like drowsy insects over rain-slicked streets, and the occasional drunk stumbled out of a bar, laughing too loud before vanishing into the dark. But tonight, the streets were emptier than usual.

He sighed, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the steering wheel as he idled at a red light, though there wasn't another car in sight. The radio played static, as it often did this late. He reached over and turned it off.

The polished wood of his guitar gleamed under the streetlights. It was his one luxury, the only thing he'd brought with him from Colombia that still felt like home. He had bought it when he was twenty, back when he still believed he might be a musician someday. Back before the war, before the threats, before he boarded a plane with nothing but a suitcase and this guitar, praying for a fresh start.

Now, he played for no one but himself.

His first pickup was outside a downtown high-rise—a man in a wrinkled suit who smelled like coffee and exhaustion. "Union Station," the man muttered, already typing on his phone. Javier nodded and pulled into traffic. The silence stretched, heavy and familiar. Most fares didn't want conversation. They wanted to stare at their screens, to forget they were sharing space with another human being for ten minutes.

But tonight, the quiet gnawed at him. "You have a good night, sir?" Javier tried. The man didn't look up. "Just drive." At the station, the man shoved cash through the partition and vanished into the crowd without a word. Javier tucked the bills into his wallet, the paper crisp between his fingers. Enough for a cheap dinner, if he skipped breakfast tomorrow.

An hour later, he picked up a woman outside a hospital. She climbed into the back seat, her face streaked with mascara, her hands clutching a plastic bag of belongings. "Where to?" Javier asked gently. She gave an address in a neighborhood he knew was full of run-down apartments. Then she pressed her forehead to the window and cried—soft, hiccuping sobs that filled the cab like a second heartbeat.

Javier turned the radio off. He drove slow, taking the long way so she'd have a few extra minutes to pull herself together. When they arrived, she handed him a crumpled twenty. "Keep it," she whispered. He watched her walk away, her shoulders hunched against the night.

The clock on the dashboard blinked 11:17 PM when Javier’s phone buzzed against the guitar case. He fumbled with the cracked screen, his calloused thumb smearing grease over his niece Marisol’s beaming photo.

“Tío!” Her voice burst through the speakers, bright as the marimba ringtone. “Did you get my video? I played your song at the recital!”

Javier’s breath caught. He could smell the antiseptic hospital corridors where he’d last seen her, six years and two missed birthdays ago. “I watched it three times, mariposita. You made the tiple sound like—”

“Put me on speaker!” His brother Eduardo’s voice cut through, crisp as a bank manager’s handshake.

The cab filled with the tinny echo of a dinner party—clinking glasses, a piano playing Porro. Javier’s fingers tightened on the wheel. That piano had been his mother’s.

“You should’ve seen Marisol’s teacher,” Eduardo continued. “Said she’s conservatory material. Real music, not street-corner strumming.” A pause. “You still driving that death trap?”

Javier watched a drunk couple stumble out of a karaoke bar, their laughter bouncing off the pavement like loose change. “The cab’s fine.”

“Dios mío, listen to him.” Eduardo’s sigh crackled through the phone. “Fifty next year and still playing make-believe. Even your guitar knows it’s over.”

The words landed like a dull knife between ribs. Javier glanced at the case beside him, its stickers peeling at the edges—a Bogotá music festival from 2001, a café that had closed before Marisol was born.

Marisol’s whisper cut through: “Tío, I used your punteado technique in the—”

“Mija, time for bed.” Eduardo’s voice retreated. “Javier, send money for her lessons or stop filling her head with nonsense.”

The line died just as Javier turned onto 5th Street. He rolled down the window, letting the humid air swallow the silence. The cab smelled suddenly of his father’s cologne, of the night he’d sold Javier’s childhood piano to pay Eduardo’s university deposit.

A red light. Javier reached for the guitar case, then stopped. His thumbnail found the groove in the steering wheel where he’d once carved M for músico. Now it was just another crack.

His phone buzzed again—a video from Marisol. The thumbnail showed her cradling his old tiple, the one he’d mailed last Christmas while Eduardo sent links to truck-driving schools.

Javier didn’t press play.

Instead, he turned up the radio where static bled through a vallenato song. The singer wailed about a man who’d traded his accordion for a shovel. Javier hummed along, his voice fraying on the high notes like it hadn’t back when he could still hit garganta profunda.

At the next stoplight, he caught his reflection in the rearview—the gray hairs Eduardo didn’t have, the sunken cheeks of a man who ate too many meals behind the wheel. The guitar case stared back, its latches rusted shut.

A notification popped up: Storage unit payment overdue. Inside that climate-controlled cube near the airport sat his bandola, his sheet music, the demo tapes that had once gotten him a callback from Sony Colombia. The tapes nobody played anymore because they used the wrong kind of machine.

Javier flicked the turn signal. The rhythmic click-click-click matched the meter of La Gota Fría, the song he’d played at his nephew’s quinceañero until Eduardo unplugged the amp. “This isn’t 1998,” he’d hissed while the guests cheered for the DJ.

The phone buzzed a third time. A text from Marisol:

Tío can you send the tabs for La Llorona? Teacher says my phrasing needs soul.

Javier’s laugh came out as a cough. He typed back: Soul costs extra. Ask your dad for a loan.

He was still smiling when the elderly man flagged him down outside the diner, his trembling hands and peppermint smell pulling Javier back into the night. As the man buckled his seatbelt, Javier caught himself humming again—the vallenato from the radio, or maybe the lullaby he’d written for Marisol before she could walk.

The old man chuckled. “You musicians. Always half in another world.”

Javier met his eyes in the rearview. “Not a musician. Just a cabbie who remembers songs.”

The lie tasted like the last sip of gone-cold coffee. He turned up the radio to drown it out.

The elderly man smelled like fried food and peppermints, his hands trembling as he tapped Javier’s headrest. "Maple and 12th," he said. "My daughter's house." Javier nodded. The streets were quieter now, the traffic thinning. He could hear the old man's ragged breathing, the way his fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on his knees.

"You okay back there?" Javier asked. The man sighed. "Just tired. Been a long life." They drove in silence for a while. Then, unprompted, the man said, "You ever think about how many strangers you've met? Just for a minute, then never again?" Javier glanced in the rearview. The man's eyes were distant, fixed on some memory Javier couldn't see. "All the time," Javier admitted. The old man smiled. "Funny, isn't it? All these little collisions. And then—" He made a soft sound, like a candle snuffing out. When they reached the house, the man took forever to count out exact change. Javier waited, watching the porch light flicker. "Take care of yourself," the old man said as he left. Javier watched him shuffle up the walkway, wondering if anyone would remember him when he was that age.

A scrap of paper fluttered to the cab floor as the old man exited. Javier almost called out — until he saw the telltale red border. A lottery ticket.

His breath hitched. The radio static seemed to sharpen into a hissing whisper. His fingers twitched toward the ticket before he snatched them back, crossing himself out of habit. The Virgin Mary pendant from his mother swung against the rearview mirror, catching the streetlight.

“Just checking if it’s trash,” he muttered to no one, to God. His palms slicked the steering wheel as he reached down. The paper smelled of peppermint and something medicinal. His thumbnail found the groove where he’d once carved M for músico — now pressing into his flesh like a penance.

The ticket was warm from the old man’s pocket. Big Winner scrawled in shaky script above the numbers. Javier’s pulse roared in his ears. This could be the sign, the miracle he’d stopped praying for years ago. Enough to pay the storage unit, maybe buy back his old bandola from the pawn shop.

Then he saw the date. Last week’s draw. His stomach dropped like a communion wafer from a sinner’s tongue. Not a miracle — a test. And he’d already failed by touching it. The ticket trembled in his fingers, suddenly burning as the old man’s parting words echoed: “Take care of yourself.”

He rolled down the window, letting the night air swallow his shame.

The lottery ticket lay on the passenger seat like a dead leaf, its edges curled from years in some old man’s pocket. Javier hadn’t meant to see it—just caught the flash of red when the dome light came on as the elderly man exited. But now the words “big winner” glared up at him in shaky block letters, the ink smudged by what might have been a trembling hand or spilled coffee.

Javier drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The gas station’s fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps across the parking lot. He could already hear Eduardo’s voice: Even when money falls in your lap, you need instructions.

The guitar case slid forward as he braked too hard near the air pumps. Inside, the top string pinged—a dissonant echo of the lottery machine’s digital chirp from last week when he’d wasted five dollars on Powerball.

The clerk didn’t look up from his wrestling magazine as Javier beelined past the beef jerky display to the self-service lottery terminal in back. The machine’s screen flickered like a tired eye as he fed it the ticket.

PLEASE WAIT.

Javier’s throat tightened. He could already see the numbers—enough to pay off the storage unit, maybe even fly to Bogotá for Marisol’s next recital. The machine whirred, spitting out a receipt with mechanical indifference.

NOT A WINNING TICKET.

The words blurred. Javier blinked hard, suddenly aware of the clerk’s bored stare and the security camera’s unblinking eye. He crumpled the receipt, the paper cutting his palm like the strings used to before callouses formed.

Near the register, the rotating hot dog warmer gurgled ominously. Three shriveled franks orbited under a yellowing heat lamp. Javier’s stomach growled, reminding him he’d skipped lunch to pay the cab’s overdue inspection fee.

“How much?” He pointed at the least corpse-like dog.

“Two-fifty.” The clerk sniffed. “With tax.”

Javier counted out the exact change from his tips jar—quarters sticky with soda residue, a nickel that left copper traces on his fingertips. The hot dog tasted of regret and sodium as he slumped against his cab’s hood, watching a teenager across the street scrape a winning scratch-off with a car key.

The guitar case stared at him from the passenger seat. He could almost hear his father’s voice from that last fight: Dreams are for rich men and fools. The old man’s peppermint scent still lingered, mixing with the chemical tang of the gas station’s air freshener.

A text buzzed in his pocket—Marisol. Did you see my new guitar? Dad got it at the conservatory auction. The photo showed her cradling a gleaming classical worth more than Javier’s cab. Eduardo’s reflection smirked in the polished soundboard.

Javier wiped mustard off his phone screen with his sleeve. His thumb hovered over the keyboard before typing: Beautiful. Play La Gata Golosa for me. He deleted it. Sent instead: Looks expensive. Don’t scratch it.

The radio crackled to life on its own, some late-night preacher ranting about redemption. Javier slammed it off, then froze.

On the floor mat behind the passenger seat lay a single peppermint candy in faded cellophane.

Javier crushed it under his heel, the crackle loud as a bone breaking. The scent flooded the cab—not just mint, but funeral parlors and his abuela’s wake where Eduardo had told relatives Javier was “between engagements.”

The GPS screen flickered. For half a heartbeat, the map dissolved into static before resolving into directions to Maple Grove Cemetery—still queued from last week’s failed shortcut. Javier stabbed the cancel button.

His phone buzzed again. Storage unit payment reminder. The demo tapes inside were older than Marisol. Sony Colombia’s A&R guy had said “interesting textures” before asking if Javier could write reggaeton instead.

The hot dog sat like a lead weight in his gut. Across the street, the lottery winner whooped and kissed his ticket.

Javier turned the key. The cab coughed to life, the check engine light winking like it knew a secret. As he wiped ketchup from his lip, the radio came back on at half-volume—just enough to hear the vallenato singer mourn “la vida que pudo ser.”

The life that could have been.

He didn’t turn it off.

The hot dog turned to ash in Javier’s mouth. He stared at the crumpled lottery ticket on the dash—not just worthless, but stolen. That shaky big winner scribble wasn’t some old man’s delusion. It was a grocery list reminder, or a birthday note from a grandkid, or maybe the last dumb joke between him and a wife buried years ago.

Javier’s fingers left grease smudges on the receipt as he smoothed it out. The numbers mocked him: 7-14-21—dates that meant nothing to him but might’ve been anniversaries, hospital stays, the day some granddaughter was born.

He gagged on the last bite of hot dog, the processed meat swelling like guilt in his throat. Through the gas station window, the clerk glared at him, as if he could smell the theft through the glass. Javier’s tips jar was lighter now, his dignity lighter still.

As he pulled away, the cab reeked of boiled meat and peppermint. The old man’s voice echoed in his head: Take care of yourself. A kindness Javier hadn’t earned. At the next red light, he rolled down the window and let the ticket flutter into the gutter, where it landed atop a flattened Coke cup—just another piece of street trash, greasy with fingerprints and shame.

Twenty minutes later, the laughter hit Javier’s cab before the door did — a shrieking, off-key chorus of drunk voices stumbling out of Club Neon. Four young men piled in, smelling of cheap cologne and cheaper vodka, their designer shirts untucked and sticking to their backs with sweat.

“Yo, sick guitar, my dude!” The one with frosted tips slapped the passenger seat headrest. “You, like, serenade people or some shit?”

Javier forced a smile, the kind he reserved for fares who might puke. “Sometimes, if—”

“Fuck yeah!” The guy in the Hawaiian shirt leaned forward, his breath sour with Red Bull and tequila. “Play us something spicy! Like that Shakira shit!”

The others whooped. Javier’s fingers twitched toward the case. It had been months since anyone asked. His pulse quickened as he unbuckled the latches — maybe this was the sign he’d been waiting for. The wood still gleamed under the dome light, though the strings had gone dull. He plucked the high E, wincing at how flat it sounded.

“Uh, one second.” He reached for the tuning pegs, but Hawaiian Shirt groaned.

“Just play, abuelo, we ain’t got all night!”

Javier swallowed. His thumbnail found the M carved into the steering wheel for courage. Then he began “La Piragua,” the first song he’d ever learned — a folk tune about a doomed riverboat, its rhythm mimicking the push–pull of the Magdalena’s currents.

For three perfect measures, the cab filled with something alive. Javier closed his eyes, feeling the ghost of his father’s hand on his shoulder, the way it used to when he’d played as a boy. The strings buzzed under his callouses, the chords vibrating through the cracked leather seat.

Then the snickering started.

“Bro, this sounds like my grandma’s telenovela—”

“Shit’s depressing as fuck—”

“Yo, driver, you got aux? Let’s bump some Bad Bunny!”

Javier’s voice died in his throat. His fingers kept moving, but the notes turned mechanical, hollow. The young men were already passing a vape pen between them, arguing over which strip club to hit next. They didn’t notice when he stopped playing.

“Here’s good,” Frosted Tips slurred as they passed a 24‑hour taco stand. He shoved a crumpled twenty at Javier — enough to cover the fare plus two bucks tip. “Keep the change, guitar hero.”

The door slammed. Laughter spilled through the window as they staggered away, already forgetting him. Javier’s left hand still clutched the neck of the guitar, his fingertips pressing too hard on the frets. A high, thin whine echoed in his ears — the sound of a string stretched to breaking point.

He exhaled sharply. Something prickled at the back of his throat — not tears, not yet, but the precursor, that awful tightening just before the dam breaks. He coughed into his fist, the sound wet and ragged.

The guitar case gaped open on the passenger seat like a wound. Javier reached to close it, then froze. The E string had snapped, coiling back on itself like a dead snake. The broken end left a red welt on his wrist.

Outside, the drunk boys were catcalling a group of girls. One of them attempted a pirouette and face‑planted into a pile of takeout containers. Their laughter bounced off the pavement, sharp as broken glass.

Javier’s phone buzzed. Another text from Marisol: Tío, did you know Dad keeps your demo tapes in his office? Says they’re “a cautionary tale.”

The words blurred. That A&R rep from Sony had used the same phrase — cautionary tale — right before suggesting Javier try writing jingles instead. His demo tapes, the ones Eduardo had saved from the trash, were now a fucking punchline.

Something hot and bitter surged up Javier’s throat. He gagged, swallowing it back down. The cab reeked suddenly of the boys’ cologne and the ghost of peppermint, a nauseating cocktail that made his eyes water.

He reached for the radio knob, desperate for static, for anything to drown out the silence. But when he turned it on, the only sound was a faint, wet gurgling — like water lapping at a rotting pier, or a man quietly drowning.

Javier’s breath hitched. The sound wasn’t coming from the speakers. It was in his throat, in his chest, rising like the Magdalena in flood season. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles cracked.

The guitar string pinged again, the broken end vibrating against the soundboard. A discordant note hung in the air between the tick of the cooling engine and the distant shriek of the drunk boys.

Javier didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at the cracked phone screen where Marisol’s message glowed — a reminder that even his failures had become someone else’s lesson.

The tickle in his throat worsened. He coughed into his sleeve. When he pulled it away, the fabric was speckled with something dark.

The streets were empty now. Javier was about to call it a night when he saw the figure—a shadow at the edge of an alley, arm raised in a slow, deliberate wave. Something prickled at the back of his neck. But money was money. He pulled over. The door creaked open. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet earth and something faintly metallic. "Where to?" Javier asked, glancing in the rearview. The passenger was just a silhouette, face hidden in darkness. Then, a voice like dry leaves scraping stone: "Maple Grove Cemetery." And Javier, tired and lonely and already half-lost in his own thoughts, didn't think to question why someone would need a ride to a graveyard at midnight. He just drove.

The moment the passenger spoke, Javier knew something was wrong. Not just odd—wrong in a way that made the hair on his arms stand up. The voice had been too dry, too hollow, like wind through a cracked tombstone. And now, as the cab rolled through the empty streets, the silence in the back seat was worse. Javier adjusted the rearview mirror, trying to get a better look. But the passenger was just a shadow—no face, no features, just a hunched silhouette swallowed by darkness. The streetlights flickered past, casting brief, stuttering light into the cab, but the illumination never seemed to touch the figure in the back. Probably just a weirdo, Javier told himself. Just keep driving. But his hands tightened on the wheel.

The radio crackled to life on its own, spitting out a burst of static. Javier flinched, then smacked the power button. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. He cleared his throat. "So," he said, forcing cheer into his voice, "you, uh... you from around here?" No answer. The passenger didn't move. Didn't shift. Didn't even seem to breathe. Javier swallowed. The GPS showed another fifteen minutes to Maple Grove. He could do fifteen minutes.

Then—a sound. A slow, wet click, like a tongue peeling off the roof of a parched mouth. "You are not from here." Javier's stomach dropped. It wasn't a question. "No," he said carefully. "Colombia, originally." "Ah." Another long silence. The cab hit a pothole, and Javier's guitar case thumped against the seat. The passenger's head tilted slightly at the sound. "You play?" The voice was different now—softer, almost curious. But still wrong. Like something that had heard human speech but didn't quite understand how to mimic it.

"Yeah," Javier said. "Just for fun." "Play for me." It wasn't a request. Javier's mouth went dry. He should say no. He should pull over and tell the guy to get out. But his hands were already moving, unbuckling the case, lifting the guitar onto his lap. The first chord rang out, trembling in the air. He played a folk song his abuela had taught him, fingers moving on autopilot. The notes were warm, familiar—a tiny piece of home in this cold, dark cab. For a moment, the fear faded.

Then the passenger spoke again. "You miss it." Javier's fingers faltered. "Yeah," he admitted. "Sometimes." "You will never see it again." The words landed like a punch. Javier's breath caught. "What?" No answer. The passenger was motionless again. Javier's pulse pounded in his ears. He forced himself to keep playing, but the music sounded hollow now, the notes fraying at the edges.

The cab rolled past a broken streetlight, plunging them into darkness for a few seconds. When the light returned, Javier glanced in the mirror—and saw the passenger's face. Pale. Sunken. Lips peeled back from yellowed teeth. Eyes wide open, staring directly at him. Javier gasped, jerking the wheel. The car swerved before he righted it, his heart hammering. When he looked again, the mirror showed only shadow. Just your imagination, he told himself. Just the dark. But the air in the cab had turned frigid. His breath fogged in front of him. The GPS announced, "Approaching destination." Javier had never been so relieved to see a cemetery.

Javier braked hard, the cab jerking to a stop just outside Maple Grove. His heart hammered against his ribs. "Alright, we're here," he said, voice strained. "That'll be eighteen-fifty." Silence. He turned in his seat. The passenger was slumped against the window, head lolling to one side. Pale, waxy skin. Sunken cheeks. Milky, unblinking eyes. And the smell—Javier recoiled, gagging. Rot. Thick and cloying, flooding the cab. The man wasn't just unconscious. He was dead. And not just dead—long dead. His skin had a grayish tint, lips peeled back from yellowed teeth. His fingers were curled like claws, nails blackened.

The corpse's head lolled against the window with a wet thunk, its milky eyes reflecting the cab's dome light like frosted glass. Javier's breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his teeth. The smell—Dios mío, the smell—thickened in the air, a cloying rot that coated his tongue, made his eyes water.

The body shifted as the cab settled, its stiffened fingers scraping against the upholstery with a sound like dry leaves on pavement. One leg, bent at an unnatural angle, slid forward until the shoe—scuffed leather, the sole peeling away—bumped against the center console. Javier flinched, his hands locked on the wheel, knuckles white.

This isn't happening.

But it was. The corpse's mouth hung slightly open, the lips shriveled back from yellowed teeth. A blackened tongue pressed against the roof of its mouth, as if frozen mid-word. The skin had a gray-green tint, stretched too tight over the bones, and dark veins spiderwebbed beneath like cracks in old porcelain. The shirt—once white, now stained with something brown and flaking—had ridden up, exposing a strip of bloated belly, the flesh mottled with decay.

Javier gagged, his stomach lurching. He fumbled for the window controls, but his fingers slipped on the buttons. The corpse's head tilted further, its temple pressing against the glass, and for a horrifying second, Javier thought it might look at him.

Then it slid.

The body slumped forward, the weight of its torso carrying it toward the gap between the seats. A brittle crack echoed through the cab as its forehead struck the center console. The corpse's arms, stiff with rigor mortis, didn't move to catch itself—just folded awkwardly, one hand splayed on the floor mat, the fingers curled like claws.

Javier's breath hitched. A strangled noise escaped his throat—not a scream, not a whimper, just a choked, animal sound of pure terror.

The silence was deafening. No breath. No rustle of fabric. Just the faint, distant hum of the cab's engine and the rush of blood in Javier's ears.

And yet—

It felt like screaming. Like the corpse was screaming without sound, its gaping mouth a black hole of silent horror. The air itself seemed to vibrate with it, a pressure building in Javier's skull until he thought his eardrums might burst.

His hand trembled as he reached for the door handle.

Javier fumbled with it, stumbling out onto the pavement. His knees hit the asphalt as he dry-heaved, the cold night air doing nothing to clear the stench from his nose. He yanked out his phone, fingers shaking as he dialed 911. "Dead body," he gasped. "In my cab. Maple Grove Cemetery. Please." Sirens wailed in the distance. Javier sank against the hood of his car, staring at the corpse through the window. How? The man had spoken. He had gotten in. Unless—Unless Javier had imagined it. The thought slithered into his mind, cold and insidious. Maybe you're losing it. Maybe you've been alone too long. But the body was real. The police would be here soon. And then what?

The cops didn't believe him. Of course they didn't. The first officer on the scene took one look at the corpse, then at Javier, and immediately radioed for backup. "Sir, step away from the vehicle." Javier raised his hands. "I didn't—I just picked him up! He was alive when he got in!" The cop's flashlight beam flicked over Javier's face, then to his guitar, still lying on the front seat. "You expect me to believe a corpse hailed a cab?" More cruisers arrived. Yellow tape. Flashbulbs. A detective—a heavyset man with a bored expression—eyed Javier like he was a stain on his shoe. "Let's start with your name." "Javier Rojas. I've been driving for Metro Cab for twelve years. I have a license, I—" "Where were you tonight before this?" Javier's stomach dropped. Nowhere. He had been driving alone all night. No witnesses. No security footage. Just his word against the impossible. The detective smirked. "Yeah. That's what I thought." They cuffed him.

As they shoved him into the back of a squad car, Javier caught a glimpse of his guitar being bagged as evidence. And then—just for a second—he thought he saw the corpse's head turn, its milky eyes following him. A rasping whisper, so faint he might have imagined it: "You should have kept driving."

The jail cell was cold. Javier sat on the thin cot, head in his hands. His court-appointed lawyer had already warned him—without evidence, without an alibi, he was looking at manslaughter at best. Murder at worst. And with his record? His immigration status? He'd never see freedom again. "You'll never see Colombia again." The words echoed in his skull. A sound cut through the silence—a soft, plucked string. Javier's head snapped up. His guitar. It was here. Leaning against the bars of his cell. But—that was impossible. It had been taken as evidence. Locked away. Yet there it was, gleaming under the flickering fluorescent light. Javier reached for it. The moment his fingers touched the wood, the lights went out. Pitch black. And then—A whisper, right against his ear: "Time to go, Javier." His heart exploded in his chest.

The coroner ruled it a heart attack. Natural causes. Case closed. The guitar went unclaimed, eventually sold at auction. A week later, another cabbie picked up a shadowy figure near the cemetery. The passenger whispered an address. And in the back seat, faint but unmistakable—the sound of a guitar string, softly plucked.

__AtilA__