Then he met Lina.

He saw her for the first time in a small bar with bad lighting and good music, the kind of place where the chairs creaked, the glasses smelled like three generations of beer, and everybody pretended they had nothing to lose. She laughed with her head tilted back a little, as if she was not ashamed of her teeth, her voice, or the space she took up. That was the first thing that hit him. Not that she was beautiful. That she was present. As if she had never asked anyone for permission to exist.