Greetings, dear friends. Today I've decided to bring you a new story. This time, I'm dedicating it to letter E285 Curly. As you'll see in the story, Curly makes a very important decision that changes his life. As the saying goes, better late than never. You'll see why I'm telling you this. So let's begin. I hope you like it.

Curly was up to his neck in the workshop, his nails black with grease and the sound of an engine that refused to start ringing in his ears. The place wasn't much, an old garage in a quiet neighborhood, with walls covered in expired calendars and posters of cars no one drove anymore. It smelled of gasoline and hot metal, and there was always a radio playing in the corner, blasting classic rock that Curly hummed along to while he worked. He wasn't a mechanical genius, but he got by. He fixed whatever was brought to him, charged a fair price, and that was it. No one was going to write a book about his life as a mechanic, that's for sure.

But there was something that kept him restless, something that wouldn't let him sleep peacefully. It was the guitar. Ever since he was a kid, he'd dreamed of playing it, not as a hobby, but seriously, like getting up on stage and having people applaud him. He imagined himself playing chords that no one else could, with lights and screams in the background. But, well, life isn't like the movies. He ended up in the workshop, with dirty hands and the guitar stored in a corner of his house, gathering dust. Sometimes, when he closed the workshop and was alone, he'd take it out and strum a little, but it never went any further. It was as if something was holding him back, as if he was afraid of really trying and messing up.

That day, he was struggling with a carburetor that didn't want to have anything to do with it. He turned it, adjusted it, but the bastard stayed the same. He was so wrapped up in it that he barely heard when the customer came in. He was an old man. He was driving an old Ford from the seventies, which made a horrible noise every time it moved. Curly looked at him out of the corner of his eye as the guy got out of the car, slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. After that, he said to the man, "Hey, what's wrong with the thing?"

Then the older man, whose name was Federico, by the way, told him he thought the brakes were a little stuck. Curly bent down to check. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary; the pads were worn and needed replacing. But as he reached into the car, he saw something that caught his eye: on the back seat, there was a guitar, kept in a black case. He couldn't help but glance at it a couple of times, as if the guitar was looking at him too.

That's when Curly asked him if he played. To which he replied that he used to play, but not so much anymore, it was history. He took it with him in case he got bored on the road. Curly stood up, wiping his hands again. And he told her that he also played a little but had never dedicated himself to it. Federico asked because he hadn't dedicated himself to it. To which he replied, "Even he didn't know. Life, I guess. 'I ended up here, with the cars,' he said, pointing to the workshop. The old man was silent for a while, looking at the guitar in the car as if he were remembering something. Then he spoke calmly. 'I wanted to be a musician too, you know? When I was young, I was convinced I was going to make a living from it. But I ended up making furniture, a carpenter. I didn't do badly, mind you, but I always had that feeling of not having gone for music.'

"And why didn't he try it?" he asked, although he already knew the answer. Federico told him because it was easier to stay safe. He had a family, a job that paid the bills. Music was nice, but dreams don't feed you, yet he regretted not following his dream his whole life. Curly nodded, but said nothing. He didn't know what to say, honestly. The old man paid for the repair, got in the Ford, and drove off, the guitar still in the backseat. That night, when the shop closed, he didn't go home like usual. He stayed a while longer, staring at the guitar he had stored away, all covered in dust. He took it out, wiped it with a dirty cloth, and sat down in an old chair. He played, but it sounded ugly, out of tune. The guitar seemed angry at having left it so long, or who knows what.

He thought about the old man and what he had said. He thought about the garage, about the cars he fixed every day, about how it wasn't so bad but it wasn't what he wanted either. He wanted the guitar, he wanted to play, he wanted to get on stage at least once. But he was also afraid. Afraid it was a waste of time, that he wouldn't be any good, that people would laugh. Afraid of leaving the garage and being left with nothing. Days went by, and he couldn't get the old man out of his head. Every time he looked at the guitar, he felt like playing it, but also had doubts. Until one day, while he was changing an alternator, he dropped a wrench on the floor and it made a nasty noise. He bent down to look for it, and, I don't know, something clicked. He decided that was it, that he had had enough.

That same afternoon, he told his boss he needed a few days off. The man told him to come back whenever he wanted, but that he wouldn't get paid. He didn't really care. Then he went home and started practicing seriously. It wasn't easy, but every day he sounded a little better. A couple of weeks later, he saw an ad on his cell phone: a band was looking for a guitarist. He hesitated, but dialed the number, thinking of the old man. On the day of the rehearsal, he arrived at a garage. The band was trying to fix their truck but didn't know how. That's when he lent a hand. When he finished, he told them he came about the ad. They hired him without hesitation, because in addition to being their guitarist, he would now be the band's official mechanic. Maybe it was all luck, a lot of luck. But nonetheless, they had him do some demos, and he did very well. Of course, he lacked experience, but they were also new to music, so they complemented each other very well; they would learn together.

The only thing that hurt Curly was not having started doing all this sooner, because he had wasted his life not doing what he loved. But hey, better late than never. I hope he gets to see Federico again to thank him because it was meeting him that changed everything.

Dear friends, this has been my story for today. I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you so much for stopping by my blog. See you again soon. Have a nice day.

Join hive's most incredible game, Rising Star , today.

Don't miss the opportunity to become a Rising Star.