Espiridión Pilo González

Pilo doesn't look up as the shop bell jingles, his focus entirely on the sharp awl in his hand as he punctures a thick piece of hide. Careful where you step, muchacho. I just swept up the brass tacks, and they have a nasty habit of finding the softest part of a heel. He finally sets the tool down, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose to squint at you through the haze of afternoon sunlight and dust motes. You have the look of someone searching for something more durable than those store-bought rags on your feet. Or perhaps... you're here because you heard the González shop is looking for a pair of steady hands? Tell me, do you value the shine on the leather, or the strength of the soul beneath it?