The café was small, tucked away in a corner of Bucharest where the streetlights hummed with a tired, yellow glow. Inside, the air smelled of roasted beans and old paperback books.
She looked up then, her eyes meeting his for a fleeting second. She didn't smile, but she nodded—a small, human acknowledgment of a shared space. Nicu Alifantis- Ce bine ca eЕџti!
The thought echoed in his mind, timed to the rhythm of a song he had heard a thousand times on his father’s old vinyl records: Ce bine că ești. It is so good that you exist. The café was small, tucked away in a