"I don't want to… Why'd I even follow you?… I hate being here."
"And yet you did it, and you know it's for your own good."
"Ughhh...."
…
…
…
"Puppy, come here."
The purpose of the conversation changed drastically as soon as Fido, the Borjas' dog, came running back from doing whatever with the other dogs. It seemed he forgot his displeasure with the situation—at least for a few seconds. It wouldn't take long, with comical bipolarity, for him to return to his haughty demeanor.
He had a weak constitution, hated leaving the house, and was antisocial by nature. I'm brilliant, I know. I used the dog as bait to lure María outside.
"Lucaaaas… my legs can't take it."
"Don't be dramatic. NO, NO, don't fall asleep on the grass."
"Sorry, but if I don't sleep now, I won't recover the hours I lost, and I'll never be able to stay awake in the afternoon again."
The Borjas' dog, as soon as Maria lay down, began playing with her hair, rubbing its snout against her face.
"AAAAAA… Brooooooo!"
"Sorry, like you said, if you want…"
"Oh, how mature you are, big brother—or rather, you're just a sadist"
María got up as fast as she could and kept walking, putting some distance between us. She wasn't angry, she just wanted attention.
"40 minutes left, if you were going to ask me"
I set a timer on my phone. For the sake of both our health, we were obligated to walk at least an hour and a half every day.
"You're a sadist—" she said, without turning to look at me.
She walked a few meters before contradicting herself, turning back to ask:
"So, can we have something delicious for dinner now? I finished The Last Revelation of the Horse and the Salamander."
She was referring to her original song, with a name that didn't match the brilliance of its content—she was terrible at naming things, no doubt. If you wanted to see it in a positive light, it sounded like a title the Argentine band Rata Blanca might give to one of their songs. However, María's favorite genre wasn't heavy metal.
"It'll be a while before we can monetize that video."
"So?"
"We remain poor... You'll have to keep eating chicken feet till month's end - or until Lucia takes pity on us."
She gave me a resigned look and muttered:
"You're a sadist."
Then shifted her attention back to playing with the Borjas' dog.
"If you think household budgeting is so simple, maybe you should pay your own bills."
"But you pay them with my earnings!"
I was left speechless.
"Fine, I'll leave it in your hands, brother. Work hard so we escape poverty and can eat beef every day."
"That's... a very distant dream, you know..."
"That sounded really sad, brother..."
We continued our morning jog around Plaza Constitución, surrounded by a world of colors and people, each existing in their own reality, simply being, flowing through time. We were trying to establish new habits, to work harder to escape poverty, yet the world kept fluctuating, growing more complicated, as if time itself was setting limits against us. Our own dreams held us back, the noise prevented clear thought, and our bodies and motivation never lived up to whatever aspirations Maria and I might harbor. Much of it was our own fault - my lack of certain skills, Maria's deficiencies in other areas.
I didn't even want to remember my last job from a couple months ago. They fired me for abandoning my shift to care for Maria after she suffered severe food poisoning. When I returned the next day, they kicked me out without ceremony. I never looked back - couldn't even muster the will to explain the situation. The VILCA project had already been our side hustle for a year at that point. With my sudden unemployment, its financial burden became our sole support.
"Brother, I've got a theory you're stealing my money to fund your lavish online gaming lifestyle."
"After everything I do for us, this is how you see me?"
"No, of course not. I know how hard you work."
"Then why say something so hurtful?"
I played along, feigning wounded pride.
"Because you stay silent. Talking to a dog is more entertaining."
"Hmm... alright Maria, what do you want to talk about?"
"I don't know either..."
A heavy silence fell, but I couldn't call it uncomfortable by any means.
"Why don't you tell me about your next song?"
"I never really know - they just come to me. But maybe about food? Something delicious. A song about filet mignon... Mmm, I know! If I rent out my room and sleep on the couch, we could earn extra. No, better we rent out yours and I keep mine - then we could afford stew, Chinese takeout, chicken thighs, lamb shanks..."
"How are you going to write a song about something you don't know the taste of?"
"I'll use the internet and the power of my imagination."
She unleashed her entire culinary vocabulary as I watched her, amused by her whimsical ideas.
These mundane, lighthearted conversations—seeing my sister try to cheer me up—were exactly why it was worth dragging her out against her will. The two of us, wandering aimlessly in circles around Plaza Constitución. Just a week ago, this same plaza had hosted the Festival of the Virgin of Carmen, alive with dancing, drinking, and laughter. I mention it because the decorations were still visible—streamers hanging from balconies and lampposts, scraps of torn paper littering the ground.
Where we lived, the houses were rough and unfinished, facades painted in mismatched colors, concrete cubes filled with noise and more noise. They formed an inevitable geometric apocalypse. Engines roared, exhaust pipes spat fumes, and the city's chaotic traffic flowed endlessly as people rushed toward destinations unknown.
If my sister was so brilliant, why hadn't I signed her up for auditions or sold her compositions to anyone willing to buy them? María was special, but she was a genius with a strange attitude—an odd way of working. She composed for herself and never let me sell her art for others to use. She insisted on making her own way.
To me, that was just an excuse. María had no real desire for fame—she simply didn't want others to have her art, and to this day, she hasn't told me why. Once, she threatened to stop speaking to me and composing forever. I thought she was joking, so I sold one of her pieces to an independent artist for a decent sum—enough to cover our needs and a few tech indulgences for VILCA. When she found out, she made good on her threat. She even stopped eating. I had to break down her door and beg forgiveness on my knees.
Needless to say, the audition route was another dead end.
In the end, María's amateur career was dictated by her quirks—by the way her brain processed the world in silent, inexplicable disgust. It was no mystery that she perceived reality differently. She never explained it well, nor did she have the words to describe the madness of shapes and colors her neurons processed daily, flooding her retinas and eardrums. If I had to compare what she saw, it'd be something like a Dali painting.
Sometimes, taking care of María felt like caring for a mentally ill patient or a child with a grotesque imagination.
"So, brother, what do you think of the new name I've absolutely decided on? No more VILCA… How about MARISA, the super-cool sister with a super-cool manager?"
"Why are you including me in your new name?"
"Because I like how it sounds, and I feel like if I leave you out, you'll get sad."
We were strangers to anyone who might call themselves normal. Sometimes I think that when we step outside, an invisible bubble forms around us, shielding us from the rest of the world, letting us do our own thing in peace. People never seem to notice us—not even if we were dying right under their noses.
It was 2 PM, announced by the chime of my watch. We lived in a somewhat rough neighborhood, which is why it caught my attention when the man lounging on the hood of a Honda Accord—who had been watching us for minutes—started walking our way.
The universe of voices around us fell silent—or maybe it was never particularly loud to begin with. The men with him were tall, looming in the distance, threatening in their lack of discretion. María kept humming. A few seconds passed before she finally noticed the stranger's presence—and the particular interest he took in her singing.
I stepped in front of her and addressed the man.
"Can we help you?"
He was tall, with slicked-back, translucent hair—elegant, with a versatile build, flawless skin, and a winter beard, thick and sculpted with almost cartoonish precision. His suit, likely from some obscure Italian brand, exaggerated his shoulders. It definitely wasn't cheap. Sunglasses and a hat—cliché, but if he wore them, they must have worked well for hiding his face.
"Apologies for the intrusion. You're the brother, right?"
"What?"
"And you're VILCA," he replied confidently, ignoring me and tilting slightly to make eye contact with my sister.
"Hey, buddy, you're talking to me."
"Relax, kid. I don't mean any harm." His tone was self-assured, unshaken, almost smug. This time, he turned to me fully and showed me his phone—VILCA's channel displayed on the screen.
It's in moments like these that I realize the difference between someone like me and a real adult.
"What do you want?" I gripped the dog's leash, ready to leave.
"I see you don't know who I am. Can't blame you—if you were a few years older, you would. But now? Well… nobody cares about stories from the past. Anyway, I'm Ulises Villarán. Music producer. Owner of Llaran Records." He extended his hand.
I've always thought it was ridiculous to expect fortune to just knock on your door. In the years that followed, I'd come to understand María's strange ability to draw the attention of important people. It would take me a little longer to realize that wasn't entirely a good thing.