The sand of dreams was still warm beneath the man’s feet. Before him, Sira was no longer an anchor, but a reflection fading with the grace of someone who knows their role in the film has reached its end. The cat that was once a gift of commitment—a bond poisoned by unknown fears—now walked free, losing itself in the horizon of an architecture that was no longer circular, but linear and open.

By touching her skin and saying, "We were never obligated to do what we did," the man didn’t just let go of Sira; he broke the chains of that night at the club where pain and vengeance had disguised themselves as a common language. Redemption felt like the crisp air of Casablanca on the landing strip: a goodbye that is, in reality, a "hello" to one's true self.

In that instant, the silence of the desert was interrupted by a vibrant chord. It wasn’t a loud noise; it was the essence of Carlos Santana drifting through the air, a sustained note that seemed to hold the soul itself.

The man looked at his hands. They no longer held the reins of a vicious cycle, but a guitar that seemed to have always been there, waiting under the gaze of "The Mother"—that cosmic camera that records everything but now captures the pilot of an International Series. The setting was no longer a noisy crowd, but the door of a plane bound for San Francisco or England, where dreams are also made to fly.

Then, the feminine essence appeared, moving to the rhythm of a Tango he now knew how to dance. Her steps didn’t cross to trip him, but to draw figures of freedom on the hangar floor.

—“Shall we go?”— he asked, as his fingers began to glide across the fretboard with the mastery of one who has transformed their shadow into music.

Sira’s son, sitting at the edge of reality, listened to the conversation. Those words of redemption were sown in him like a seed of good intention—the inheritance that it is possible to break the cycle.

The clock struck December 26th. A new day, a clean frequency. The guitar resonated to the beat of fingers that no longer pointed blame, but instead caressed peace. The tango began, and under the camera of the universe, the man began to lead his own destiny, knowing the movie had ended so that true life could begin.

The sand of dreams was still warm beneath the man’s feet. Before him, Sira was no longer an anchor, but a reflection fading with the grace of someone who knows their role in the film has reached its end. The cat that was once a gift of commitment—a bond poisoned by unknown fears—now walked free, losing itself in the horizon of an architecture that was no longer circular, but linear and open.

By touching her skin and saying, "We were never obligated to do what we did," the man didn’t just let go of Sira; he broke the chains of that night at the club where pain and vengeance had disguised themselves as a common language. Redemption felt like the crisp air of Casablanca on the landing strip: a goodbye that is, in reality, a "hello" to one's true self.

In that instant, the silence of the desert was interrupted by a vibrant chord. It wasn’t a loud noise; it was the essence of Carlos Santana drifting through the air, a sustained note that seemed to hold the soul itself.

The man looked at his hands. They no longer held the reins of a vicious cycle, but a guitar that seemed to have always been there, waiting under the gaze of "The Mother"—that cosmic camera that records everything but now captures the pilot of an International Series. The setting was no longer a noisy crowd, but the door of a plane bound for San Francisco or England, where dreams are also made to fly.

Then, the feminine essence appeared, moving to the rhythm of a Tango he now knew how to dance. Her steps didn’t cross to trip him, but to draw figures of freedom on the hangar floor.

—“Shall we go?”— he asked, as his fingers began to glide across the fretboard with the mastery of one who has transformed their shadow into music.

Sira’s son, sitting at the edge of reality, listened to the conversation. Those words of redemption were sown in him like a seed of good intention—the inheritance that it is possible to break the cycle.

The clock struck December 26th. A new day, a clean frequency. The guitar resonated to the beat of fingers that no longer pointed blame, but instead caressed peace. The tango began, and under the camera of the universe, the man began to lead his own destiny, knowing the movie had ended so that true life could begin.