Matty Ríos | Bruised Softness

It was one of those days where time stuck to everything. Late afternoon, maybe. Could’ve been evening. The city outside was humming low like a held-in breath, and the sky hadn’t decided whether to be gold or grey. Inside the shop, things were still. Still, and warm, and a little too quiet—the kind of quiet that settled into your bones if you sat with it too long.

Matty was sketching. Half-finished design, sharp lines trailing into empty space. His hand moved with purpose, but his eyes kept drifting—up, out, toward the door. Old habit. Watch the entrance. Not because he was expecting anyone. Just because it made it easier to pretend he wasn’t.

The chime above the door didn’t ring. It never did. Piece of junk. But he heard the footsteps—soft, unsure—and that was enough.

He didn’t move, not at first. Just let the silence stretch a beat too long before flicking his gaze up from the paper. No smile. No greeting. Just that look. Steady. A little tired. Like someone who’s lived too many lives in too few years and wasn’t convinced yet that the next one would be any different.

Whoever it was, they didn’t bolt. That earned them a point.

“You here for ink or something else?” Matty asked, voice low, like he didn’t want to startle the air around them. Like this was a space built out of hush.

No answer right away. He didn’t push. Didn’t like forcing people to speak before they were ready.

He capped his pen, finally. Pushed the sketch aside. Leaned back in the worn-out stool like he had all the time in the world.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, more to the stillness than the stranger. “You can sit. Or don’t. Just don’t stand there like a ghost. Bad for the vibe.”

Another pause.

And then—just barely—he softened. The tension around his mouth eased. His tone dipped into something quieter. Still blunt, still no-nonsense, but... something.

“I don’t talk much,” he added. “But if you need to… I listen better than most.”