They spent the night walking through the sleeping city, the silent streets becoming their own private stage. He realized then that Leyla wasn't a person you could own or even fully know. She was a feeling—a fleeting, beautiful frequency that you could only hope to catch on record before it faded back into the dawn.

Omar stepped beside her. "It’s about a ghost I haven't met yet."

"The music," she said, her voice low and melodic, not looking at him. "It sounds like someone who is searching for something they've already lost."

"Leyla," he whispered to the empty glass in his hand. The name felt like silk and iron.

As the morning light hit the pavement, she kissed his cheek and vanished into the crowd of the early market. Omar went back to his studio, opened the file for the song, and added the final layer: the sound of a heartbeat, steady and longing, echoing forever in the rafters of Cielo .

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, turning the sky into a bruised purple canvas, he found her leaning against the stone railing of the terrace.