On the parched outskirts of a nameless town, where the earth bled ochre and horizon-washed dreams lingered like mirages, a game unfurled—one that shimmered and waned like 短暂的metal, a brief glint in time’s eye. César, tall and enigmatic, commanded an audience without speaking; his presence itself was an intimate dialogue.
He sat under the ample shade of a wizened jacaranda, flipping an unusual coin mid-air, its metallic gleam catching fiery shards of sunlight. Across from him, a young boy named Santiago watched, every flip a heartbeat, every spin a promise.
“Is it magic?” Santiago broke the silence, thin voice trembling with cautious awe.
“It’s a game,” César replied, his voice rich as the dark brew the town coddled at dawn. “But not of chance. Of choice.”
The gameboard lay etched into the wooden table before them, beautifully intricate with arabesques and symbols that defied worldly logic. Santiago gingerly traced a finger along the lines, curious yet cautious.
“What must I do?” Santiago inquired, a quiver of trepidation tracing his spine.
“To play, you must first dream,” César murmured, eyes shaded and secretive. He flipped the coin once more, a brief flash before it disappeared into his palm, “Are you ready to dream?”
Dreams were treacherous in Santiago’s world—a concoction of earth and old stories passed down like heirlooms. But César, a figure cloaked in mystery and otherworldly nuance, turned clichés into new myths.
Santiago nodded, more to the lilting breeze than to César, who began his story—a tale intertwined with whispers of bygone lands and a hero’s journey through the labyrinths of destiny.
In this ephemeral game, players wagered their dreams against the fleeting shine of metal. Santiago cast his desires—a simple wish to craft melodious harmonies on an old guitar, its strings threaded with longing.
“Take your turn, Santiago,” César guided. The boy moved a piece carved from an old root, vibrant and flushed with forgotten rhythms.
A hum of anticipation enveloped them, a sudden rapture in the desert’s silence. As he played, Santiago noticed each move conjured a vivacious scene from his wish into tangible reality: chords entwined around the wind, echoing like ethereal requiems.
Just as hope feathered his heart, a twist bent the rules of play. The shadowed landscape César painted fragmented into truth, revealing every risk Santiago overlooked: dreams threatened by their quest for form, ephemeral metal that crumbled under weight.
“What is the cost?” Santiago’s voice edged with dread as the illusion wavered, the guitar’s music dwindling to a plaintive wail.
“The cost…" César paused, voice a mere echo, “depends on how willing you are to awaken.”
Awakening meant a return to dusty roads and untold melodies in a world bereft of magic’s touch. But in that awakening, a story lay—one that Santiago alone could spin with threads of dreams and a willingness to lose.
César rose, his shadow a promise of things yet undreamt. “Until we meet again, player of dreams.”
With a nod, Santiago released his hold on illusion, watching the ephemeral metal melt away, leaving the cool echo of possibility. He knew, as César departed like a breath on the wind, that each game played was a turn in the great wheel—a chance to reflect, to forge anew with eyes wide open to the delicate shimmers of reality and desire.
In that brief encounter under the jacaranda, Santiago learned of choice, of games and dreams, and of waking—forever changed by the dance of metal and dream.