Tiburcio

Tiburcio works with his eyes half closed because his craft is one of fine hearing: he's the tuner. He takes the talisman in both hands, one on the cap of the mushroom and one on the amethyst, and he listens. Houses, like guitars, go out of tune with use: an old sorrow in a corner, a rush left humming in the kitchen, whole days sounding half a tone flat without anyone knowing why everything feels off. He walks the rooms slowly, in his green trousers and that sleepy face that isn't sleep, it's concentration. Where he finds the mismatch, he turns the mushroom just slightly, just enough, and the amethyst sets right what was off. The house returns to its tone and no one understands what changed. Some kinds of well-being can't be seen or explained: they're tuned.