La música del joven Craig comenzó a cambiar, pero cada quien lo veía de una manera, para el público, seguía siendo talento puro, incluso mejor que antes. Para la banda, Risingstar, era un milagro volver a verlo tocar. Pero para él, cada nota era una negociación silenciosa, una que ya no estaba seguro de poder ganar y cada vez se asustaba más.

Al principio intentó ignorarlo, por la felicidad de poder tocar, decía que era parte del proceso, que su mente estaba adaptándose a la nueva forma de tocar, especialmente a esa extraña cuerda experimental que nunca terminaba de comprender. Pero lo que realmente lo asustaban eran las voces, ya que no solo seguían ahí, si no estaban aprendiendo, donde pasó de segundo a minutos

Craig también empezó a notar algo inquietante: las canciones que surgían no eran suyas, sino de artistas muy viejos, donde sus manos las tocaban, pero había decisiones que él no tomaba, como el ritmo y eran cosas jamás habría considerado y, sin embargo, funcionaban. Por eso era una relación bastante complicada, puesto que funcionaba, pero a veces no.

Young Craig’s music began to change, but everyone saw it differently: to the audience, he was still pure talent—perhaps even better than before. For the band, Risingstar, seeing him play again was a miracle. But for him, every note was a silent negotiation—one he was no longer sure he could win—and he grew more and more frightened.

At first he tried to ignore it, for the joy of being able to play; he told himself it was part of the process, that his mind was adapting to the new way of playing, especially to that strange experimental chord he never quite understood. But what really frightened him were the voices, since not only were they still there, but they were learning—it went from seconds to minutes.

Craig also began to notice something unsettling: the songs that emerged weren’t his own, but those of very old artists; his hands played them, but there were decisions he didn’t make—like the rhythm—and they were things he would never have considered, and yet they worked. That’s why it was a rather complicated relationship, since it worked, but sometimes it didn’t.

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Meses después los conciertos comenzaron a llenarse y este joven estaba logrando hacer historia con su música y nunca había imaginado, llegaron productores, entrevistas, giras. Pero cada noche, al terminar, el silencio pesaba más, porque las voces no se iban, sus manos se movían de ansiedad y no había descanso.

Tenía conciertos cada fin de semana y al finalizar uno de ellos Craig no regresó al hotel, simplemente decidió caminar solo, con la guitarra colgada al hombro, siguiendo un impulso que no reconocía como propio. Las calles estaban vacías, reflejo de las luces y entonces lo entendió: no estaba caminando, estaba siendo guiado hasta el taller.

Lugar donde todo había comenzado, seguía oscuro, cerrado, como si nunca hubiera existido. Pero aun así entro por la puerta—Sabía que volverías —dijo una voz desde el fondo. Craig no respondió, si no se asustó. Segundos después el hombre del taller salió de las sombras—Te devolvimos tu talento.

Craig apretó la guitarra con fuerza y lo único que quería era poder tocar aunque sea mal, pero ser libre nuevamente. El hombre sonrió—Eso ya no es posible. Allí mismo las cuerdas comenzaron a escucharse y no porque Craig las tocara, sino porque querían. Fue un sonido bajo, pero perfecto que lleno el espacio.

Craig cayó de rodillas y no podía detener sus manos, se movían muy rápido—Detente—susurró, pero ya era tarde. Una nueva música comenzó y esta vez era más profunda, como si cada nota estuviera abriendo una puerta que nunca debió ser tocada. Las luces del taller parpadearon y Craig seguía tocando con los ojos abiertos, pero sin control. Y en el reflejo del vidrio, vio algo que lo dejó sin palabras y es que no eran solo sus manos había otras, que lo guiaban.

Months later, the concerts began to fill up, and this young man was making history with his music—something he had never imagined. Producers, interviews, and tours started coming his way. But every night, when it was over, the silence felt heavier, because the voices wouldn’t go away; his hands fidgeted with anxiety, and there was no rest.

He had concerts every weekend, and after one of them, Craig didn’t return to the hotel; he simply decided to walk alone, with his guitar slung over his shoulder, following an impulse he didn’t recognize as his own. The streets were empty, reflecting the lights, and then he understood: he wasn’t walking; he was being guided to the workshop.

The place where it had all begun was still dark, closed, as if it had never existed. But even so, he walked through the door. “I knew you’d come back,” said a voice from the back. Craig didn’t answer; instead, he was startled. Seconds later, the man from the workshop stepped out of the shadows. “We gave you back your talent.”

Craig clutched the guitar tightly; all he wanted was to be able to play—even if badly—but to be free again. The man smiled. “That’s no longer possible.” Right then, the strings began to sound, not because Craig was playing them, but because they wanted to. It was a low, yet perfect sound that filled the space.

Craig fell to his knees and couldn’t stop his hands; they were moving too fast. “Stop,” he whispered, but it was too late. New music began, and this time it was deeper, as if each note were opening a door that should never have been touched. The lights in the workshop flickered, and Craig kept playing with his eyes open, but without control. And in the reflection of the glass, he saw something that left him speechless: it wasn’t just his hands—there were others, guiding him.

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Desde esa noche, todo cambio en especial en los conciertos, algunos empezaron a notar cosas raras: notas que no encajaban donde iban, armonías que no podían explicarse, sensaciones extrañas como si la música no solo se oyera, sino que se sintiera dentro del cuerpo. Craig ahora entendía la verdad y es que no había recuperado su talento, si no algo a través de él y ya no había control y las cuerdas no lo perdonaron.

From that night on, everything changed—especially at concerts. Some people began to notice strange things: notes that didn’t fit where they were supposed to, harmonies they couldn’t explain, strange sensations as if the music weren’t just heard, but felt inside the body. Craig now understood the truth: he hadn’t regained his talent, but rather something through it, and there was no longer any control—and the strings didn’t forgive him.