Chapter One: The Boy Who Dreamed of Bells
The morning air in Granada carried a faint chill that belonged more to memory than to the season. From the narrow balcony of a modest house on Calle San Matías, Mateo Rivas watched the first sunlight slip down the white walls of the Alhambra, spreading gold over its towers. To him, it was not simply a view but a promise.
He was twenty-three and already certain that greatness awaited him. It had to. His father’s tailoring shop below was filled with the smell of pressed wool and the sound of needles biting into cloth, a rhythm Mateo found unbearable. Every time he looked at the bent figure of his father, he felt an invisible hand pressing his own shoulders down. His dreams were not measured in inches of fabric but in applause, lights, and names remembered long after their owners had died.
