Narrativa impresionista. Lecturas. Ejercicios, improvisaciones de impresionismo.

 In the quaint town of Harmony Grove, where the cobblestone streets whispered secrets with every step, there lived a peculiar man named Eliot. He was not peculiar because of his eccentric attire or his unconventional hobbies. No, Eliot was peculiar because he was known for his unparalleled ability to listen. His deep-set eyes held a gentle empathy that could make even the most stoic souls spill their deepest worries. His house, a cozy cottage nestled between an ancient willow and a blooming hydrangea bush, was a beacon for those in need of a comforting ear. One moonlit night, Eliot drifted into a restless slumber. As he descended into the abyss of dreams, he found himself in a vast, silent desert. The sand beneath his feet was warm and ever-shifting, and the stars above stretched out like a blank canvas yearning for a painter's touch. In the distance, a figure approached, cloaked in shadows and shrouded in mystery. The figure grew closer, its footsteps silent upon the desert floor, and as it reached Eliot, it reached out a spectral hand and gently cupped his throat. With a sudden jolt, Eliot awoke, his vocal cords paralyzed, his voice gone. The townsfolk, accustomed to his soothing voice, grew concerned as days turned to weeks without a single word from him. They gathered outside his cottage, sharing whispers of what might have happened. Some spoke of curses, others of malevolent spirits, but no one dared to broach the subject with Eliot himself. His eyes remained the same, brimming with understanding and compassion, but the absence of his gentle timbre cast a pall over their gatherings. Eliot, once the town's confidant, now found himself an outsider in his own life. He communicated through hastily scribbled notes, his handwriting a jagged dance of desperation across the page. His conversations with himself grew louder in his mind, a cacophony of unspoken words echoing in the vast, lonely cavern where his voice had once resonated. His dreams, however, grew more vivid. Each night, the cloaked figure returned, whispering riddles that seemed to hold the key to his lost voice, but the desert winds carried them away before he could grasp their meaning. Determined to solve the enigma, Eliot sought the wisdom of the town's oldest inhabitant, Mabel, whose eyes had seen more than a century of Harmony Grove's secrets. Her cottage smelled of dust and forgotten spells, the air thick with the scent of herbs and candle wax. She studied Eliot intently as he recounted his nightly torment, her weathered hands playing with a string of crystal beads. When he finished, she nodded solemnly and spoke of ancient lore, of dreams that bled into reality and voices stolen by the night's whispers. Mabel revealed that the cloaked figure was a silent guardian of the realm of slumber, a being known as the Sphinx of Somnus. It was said that the Sphinx could grant one's deepest desires, but only if the seeker could solve its riddles. In Eliot's case, the price was his voice, a currency he had never thought to bargain with. With a trembling hand, she handed him an aged parchment filled with incantations and symbols. "You must summon the Sphinx," she instructed, her voice a frail thread in the quiet room. "Demand your voice back, but beware, for the price it asks in return may be steeper than you wish to pay." Eliot took the parchment, feeling the weight of his predicament like a stone in his pocket. He knew he could not live in silence forever, not when the town needed him. That night, he sat before his crackling fireplace, the paper trembling in his grasp. He recited the incantation, each syllable a struggle, as if the very air resisted his silent voice. The flames grew taller, their light flickering, and a sudden gust of wind blew through his cottage, extinguishing the candles. The cloaked figure materialized, the shadows dancing around it like living ink. The Sphinx's eyes gleamed like polished onyx, piercing the gloom. "You wish for the return of your voice," it murmured, its voice like the rustle of leaves. "But to regain what you've lost, you must first understand its true worth." Eliot nodded, his heart racing. He had no idea what the creature had in store for him, but he was ready to face it. The Sphinx spoke again, its riddle floating in the air like a ghostly melody. "What is it that can bring forth both joy and sorrow, heal the deepest wounds yet cause the most profound harm, and is found in every heart, yet can be lost in a single night?" Eliot pondered, his mind racing. His gaze darted around the room, searching for clues in the flickering shadows cast by the fire. The answer danced on the tip of his tongue, but remained just out of reach. The Sphinx waited patiently, its cloak billowing with the rhythm of its silent breaths. It was as if the very fabric of the night held its breath, eager to hear his response. Finally, he spoke. "A word," he wrote hastily on a piece of parchment, offering it to the Sphinx. "A word can bring joy or sorrow, heal or harm, and is found in every heart, yet can be lost in a single moment of anger or despair."

By Carlos del Puente