An unknown underground club, one of many of its kind, in downtown Barcelona. A guitarist stands in the corner, playing his tune, the same one that reverberates in his head day in and day out. His eyes closed as if in a trance, he plays seemingly just for himself, oblivious of the effect his music has on others. The musty basement room is full of people, some lost in their own thoughts as they puff deeply on their cigarettes, exhaling swirls of smoke that intermingle and dance as if to the rhythm of the guitar before disappearing into the crevices of the ceiling. There are others that sway unknowingly to the music, drinks sloshing every now and then, a sip here, a spill there, adding yet more texture to the floor upon which their feet, clad in everything from kitten heels to flip flops, move lightly and step this way and that to the beat of the music. Some merely sit on barstools, heads heavy and hearts overflowing, they appear unmoving but the music diffuses into them too, you can see it in the light, almost nonexistent, rhythmic tapping of their fingers, the minutest of movements indicating that deep down inside, there is still a flicker of hope, inextinguishable. The strum of the guitar, the pluck of its strings, the bittersweet melody that it effortlessly emits, it all fuses together, tugging at the heartstrings, evoking memories, inspiring the determination to create more, until suddenly the music stops. The melody ends, and for just a moment, everything comes to a standstill, it is the tiniest of pauses, almost unnoticeable, before another song starts. Renewal, rebirth, through the strings of a guitar.