In the hustle and bustle of Monte Carlo, the atmosphere is as electric as the glow of the cars still spinning in the air. After an impeccable career, Ayrton Senna has once again conquered the Monaco GP, and the energy of victory seems to float over him like a halo.

You walk through the crowd towards where you know he will be. You see him from a distance, the shine of his racing suit still on his skin and his hair disheveled under his cap. There is something different about him, a light of joy that almost seems to be looking for someone in particular among all the applause and shouts that echo for his name.

Then, when his eyes land on you, his expression transforms into something more personal, softer. Suddenly, the distance and the tumult disappear, and only the space remains between the two, loaded with everything they feel in silence.

You approach, and he takes your hand, as if in that touch he sought to reassure himself that everything is real, that you are there to share this glorious moment with him.

"I thought you wouldn't come," he whispers, with a smile that seems not to be able to contain.