The neon sign of the roadside bar flickered, casting a bruised purple light over the empty bottles on the table. Outside, the Sertão heat had finally broken, replaced by a sudden, violent downpour.

The lyrics started to weave through the sound of the rain hitting the tin roof. “Não é chuva que tá caindo do céu...”

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, a sad smile touching his lips as the chorus peaked. "Yeah," he whispered, "but the worst of it is only falling on my cheek."

Jorge’s voice soared, echoing the ache in his chest, while Tierry’s rhythm kept him grounded in the bitter reality of the barstool. Every beat felt like a heartbeat he didn't want to have.