There was a city of glass and steel, and we danced, a ghost and a girl. Our hands, a breath apart, a beautiful, impossible world.

But something shattered. Not with a sound, but with a whisper of light. The frame disappeared.

The word between our hands was not a bridge, but a seed. And the city... broke. Not into ruin, but into bloom.

Now, fiore climbs the concrete towers, vines of light crawl up the glass. The streets breathe with a soft, green glow, and the fallen garlands at my feet have learned to rise.

We are still dancing, you and I. The space between our hands remains, but it is no longer a wound. It is a garden. The source from which this new world springs.

This is the tango we dreamed of, not for two, but for all. Where the uncaring street becomes a lover, and the teacher is the soul.