"Don't fight the rhythm," he whispered over the brassy roar of the speakers. "The garden is overgrown. You have to dance through the weeds, not around them."
The melody of "Mia Răsărit în Grădină Sârbă" drifted through the heavy velvet curtains of the Luceafărul Ballroom, a place where time seemed to hold its breath.
Sandu watched them, a small smile tugging at his lips. He stood up, his joints popping like dry kindling, and walked to the center. Without a word, he took Elena’s hand and Marc’s shoulder.