She speaks in fragments: “El viento tiene memoria” (the wind has memory). “Las horas se quiebran como galletas viejas” (hours break like old crackers). You’re never sure if she’s talking to you or to the ghost of a song playing in her head.

She smiles, as if she’s already read them on your face.

She doesn’t look at you like other people do. Her gaze is a sketch, half-finished, like a watercolor left out in the rain. That’s why they call her muchacha de ojos de papel — the girl with paper eyes.