The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon in Havana, painting the crumbling colonial facades in shades of honey and ochre. On a secluded balcony overlooking the Malecon, Lidia stood watching the waves, her mind miles away in Bucharest. She had come to Cuba seeking a rhythm she couldn’t find at home, a heartbeat that matched her own restless spirit.

Behind her, the soft strumming of a guitar broke the silence. Descemer sat in the shadows of the room, his fingers dancing over the strings, humming a melody that tasted like sea salt and old rum.

Lidia turned, a slow smile spreading across her face. She picked up a white flower that had fallen from the vase on the table—a simple, resilient margarita. "It’s about the things that bloom even when the soil is dry," she whispered.