Dear friends, another day begins, and as always, it's a great pleasure for me to be back with you all, just like every day. In this particular case, I'm continuing with my most recent theme, which is to bring you a new story. This time, I've dedicated it to letter E145, Vlad. This story is about Vlad's rise to prominence and how he became the great singer he is today. I hope you like it. Let's begin then.

Vlad was standing on a semi-makeshift stage with a microphone. It was an old warehouse, with paint peeling off the walls and lights flickering as if they were about to give up. The place was packed, a crowd of people packed in, from kids with sleepless faces to older men who looked like they were carrying the weight of the world. Vlad grabbed his guitar, the strings against his fingers, and began to sing. He didn't have a voice that melts your heart; it was rather raw and unpolished, but it hit hard because he said things he meant. He sang about how the power goes out all the time, how the rent goes up without warning, how the boss promises things and then disappears as if nothing had happened. People listened, some nodding their heads, others with their arms crossed, but all engaged.

An old man on a corner raised his beer can, as if to say "Cheers to that." Vlad continued, sometimes his voice cracking, but he didn't stop. He wasn't one of those singers who pretended to be a star; he was more like a neighbor who tells you what's happening while smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk. But you know... Before all this, Vlad wasn't anyone special. He worked carrying boxes at the market, sweating his shirt off since morning. The neighborhood was a disaster, with power outages that lasted for days, brown water coming through the pipes, and kids running around because the schools were a mess. Sometimes I saw Doña Rosa, the next-door neighbor, fighting with the landlord because they were raising the rent again. She screamed until she was red in the face, but it was no use; she always lost.

He often sat on a crate during his breaks, eating an old tortilla he took from his backpack, and scribbled things in a worn notebook. They weren't poems or anything like that, just bits and pieces of what he saw. Once, while unloading a truck, he saw a kid about ten years old selling candy on the street. The kid had worn-out shoes and a hungry look. Vlad bought him some, even though he didn't feel like it, just to lend a hand. That night, in his little room, he wrote a song about the kid, about how everything was set up so that guys like him wouldn't stand a chance. He didn't think about it much, he just wrote it and that was it. Over time, things changed a bit. Vlad started playing in small bars, gathering a following. He wasn't famous or anything, but he was already known in the neighborhood.

And of course, when you start making noise, someone always appears who wants to get in on the action. One night, after a gig, a guy in a suit approached him. "Hey, Vlad, I liked your show," he said, with a smile that seemed like plastic. "But, look, some of your lyrics... they're a little strong, aren't they? If you soften them a bit, we can get you bigger venues, more money." The truth is, he didn't know what to say at that point. He stood there, scratching his neck, thinking. The money wouldn't hurt; his mom was always tight on the bills. But something didn't add up. "I don't know, dude, I sing what I live. If I change that, what do I have left?" The guy looked at him seriously and said, "Think carefully, you don't want to upset the wrong person." And he left.

A week later, the bar where he always played canceled his show. The owner acted dumb, "Things happen," he said, but Vlad wasn't stupid. Then, one morning, he found graffiti on his front door: "Shut up or we'll shut you up." He stared at those red letters for a long time, his stomach churning. He wasn't brave, just a guy with a guitar, but he wasn't going to just sit back and be quiet.

Things got more serious when the festival some neighborhood bands put together came around. It was a big deal; there were going to be more people than ever. Vlad had a new song, one that went straight to the point: it named the corrupt politician who was lining his pockets, the factory that was poisoning the river, the landlord who evicted families without batting an eye. He knew that singing it meant getting into a real mess. Miguel, his lifelong friend, told him one night over a beer: "Bro, they're going to screw you over if you do that. Just play your usual stuff and that's it." But Vlad was tired of dodging. The night of the festival, the place was packed. He went up on stage, his T-shirt soaked with sweat before the show started. The lights were shining in his face, and he felt all eyes on him. He started off with a couple of familiar songs, the kind people sang along to. Then he stopped, took a deep breath, and said into the microphone: "This guy is new. He's for those of us who are tired of being walked over."

He began to sing, and at first his voice trembled, but then he loosened up. The words came out sharply, cutting the air. He named names, pointed his finger, and the audience fell silent for a second, as if processing it. Then murmurs began, and suddenly some shouted, others clapped loudly. Vlad finished the song with his heart in his throat, looking in the background where some stone-faced guys in suits were standing. He knew something ugly was coming.

After that night, things got complicated. Some places turned him down, others offered him a chance to play, but with rules: no political songs. Vlad said no. He started doing his thing in smaller places, sometimes just on the street, with a guitar and an old speaker they lent him. Money was tight, and his mom complained. "Why don't you sing something nice, son, something about love, I don't know," she'd say while peeling potatoes in the kitchen. But Vlad couldn't; he couldn't do it if it wasn't real. Still, the people in the neighborhood supported him. Some gave him a few pesos, others brought him food or simply said, "Thanks, dude, for not shutting up." One afternoon, after playing in a plaza, a little girl approached him with a toy guitar. "I want to sing like you," she said seriously. "About my life." Vlad smiled at her, though inside he felt a lump in his stomach. "Okay, but be careful, it's not easy, okay?"

After that, years passed, and Vlad didn't become a star or anything like that. He was still around, older, with graying hair and slower hands on the guitar. He didn't fill stadiums, but he was someone in the neighborhood. Once, two old men were chatting on a bench, drinking mate. "Remember when Vlad sang to that corrupt mayor? What balls he had," one said. "Yeah, and they tried to shut him up, but they couldn't. The kids still sing his songs, you know?" the other replied. A few blocks away, Vlad was with some teenagers, teaching them how to play. He showed them how to put their fingers on the strings, although sometimes he made mistakes and laughed at himself. One of the kids, a skinny guy with a curious expression, asked him, "Have you ever regretted it? Not taking the easy way, I mean." Vlad thought about it, scratching his beard. "Sometimes, yeah, what do I know. But then I see you guys, and I'm like, nah, it was worth it." The kid nodded and played a chord, a bit off-key, but it was something. And so Vlad continued, a bit stumbling, but always singing his own tune, but above all, the truth, that's what's most important.

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