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.

"It needs a name," he said softly, his voice a gravelly contrast to the crashing surf outside.

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.