Ricardo Rios's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Ricardo Rios counted the pesos in his pocket outside the empty building that used to be his grandmother's house. Twenty-three years at Radio Cumaná had ended when the station closed, but his dream hadn't died with it. He wanted to fill these rooms with tourists learning Venezuelan songs, watching traditional dances, tasting real hallacas made the way his grandmother had taught him. A cultural center where the old stories would live again. His cousin owned the deed now and wanted triple what the place was worth. Ricardo pressed his hand against the weathered door and hummed the opening notes of 'Alma Llanera.' The wood felt warm under his palm, still holding heat from the afternoon sun. He walked away from his grandmother's house and headed toward the plaza. His fingers traced the outline of a folded paper in his shirt pocket. The sketch showed what he wanted to build—a proper cultural center with clean white walls and carved details above the doorways. Centro Cultural de Cumaná, he'd written across the top. Inside would be rooms for cooking classes, space for guitar lessons, walls covered with old photographs of the town. But the sketch was just paper, and his cousin wasn't answering his calls. Ricardo stopped at the edge of the plaza and pulled out his guitar. A small stage sat empty in the corner, painted bright colors that reminded him of the shirts fishermen wore on festival days. He climbed onto it and started playing 'Pajarillo.' Three people walking past slowed down. One pulled out her phone. Ricardo sang louder, his voice carrying across the open space. A golden sandstone floor stretched out in front of the stage, smooth and flat enough for dancing. He stamped his foot twice on the wood, keeping rhythm. By the time he finished the song, twelve people had gathered. A woman asked if he taught lessons. A man wanted to know where tourists could hear more traditional music. Ricardo wrote his phone number on the back of his sketch six times, tearing the paper into pieces. The cultural center existed in his head and on torn scraps handed to strangers. It wasn't his grandmother's house yet, but it was something. He packed his guitar and walked toward the harbor, already planning tomorrow's songs.