She didn’t need to download it again. She had never deleted it. She had only hidden it.

With trembling fingers, she pressed play. The piano began. And for the first time in two years, Mariana didn’t run from the sound. She let it wash over her. She closed her eyes, and she saw Mateo, dancing with her in the kitchen, singing off-key but with perfect love.

Three years ago, that song was their anthem. She and Mateo had discovered Il Divo on a rainy Tuesday, huddled under a single umbrella, running from the subway to a tiny record store in San Telmo. The shopkeeper, an old man with silver hair and a knowing smile, had been playing Hasta Mi Final over the crackling speakers.

Hasta mi final, she whispered to the empty room. Until my end.