The Velvet Glove

In the moon‑lit night over Saragossa, the river Ebro glints like a restless ribbon, its waters tugging a lone ferry across a narrow span. The ancient city looms behind a veil of poplars and stone domes, while a fierce north‑west wind sweeps the banks, scattering dust and setting the scene with a vivid, almost tactile atmosphere. The quiet of the riverbank is broken only by the soft creak of the vessel and the whisper of distant clouds drifting toward the moon.

Don Francisco de Mogente, a weather‑worn man with a striking blend of American accent and Spanish resolve, sits on a waiting bench, his eyes fixed on the far shore. After fifteen years of patient longing, he finally declares he will wait no longer, hinting at a secret promise tied to a woman who knows nothing of his return. His calm demeanor masks a deeper urgency, inviting listeners to follow his journey into a world of hidden motives, old rivalries, and the timeless pull of the river’s current.