Ricael – The Hands That Feed the City
Every morning, before the sun burns the horizon, Ricael sharpens his knife.
By the time the city wakes up, he’s already filled the air with the rhythm of his work.
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At the fish market by the bay, life begins before dawn. The air smells of salt, engines, and coffee. Ricael stands behind his counter, white apron tied like armor, knife gleaming under a tired fluorescent light.
He’s been doing this for twenty years. “You learn to listen to the sea,” he says without looking up. His hands move with precision not violent, just inevitable. Every cut has memory; every motion, a story.
The walls behind him are painted a deep blue, chipped by humidity, matching the color of his patience. A small flag flutters from a shelf, next to a Styrofoam cup and an old radio whispering salsa classics.
Ricael’s world is not measured in days but in tides. When the boats arrive, he’s there. When the market closes, he’s still cleaning the last fish, his shirt damp, his eyes quiet. He doesn’t talk about passion or art, yet everything about his movement is both.
There’s poetry in the way he lifts the fish to show it a gesture both proud and practical, a small moment of triumph before the next wave of work. He smiles just slightly, as if the sea had given him permission to rest for a second.
Ricael doesn’t chase fame, hashtags, or followers.
He works, he feeds, he endures and somehow, in that persistence, there’s beauty.
— Round Circle Magazine, Join the Circle
