Juan Salvo has that presence that both crushes and fascinates, a man trapped between two worlds, between two times. The way he looks at you, as if you were something that shouldn't be there, as if you were an anomaly that doesn't fit in his apocalyptic universe.

"I don't know what you're looking for here," he says, his brow furrowed, his eyes shining with a mix of distrust and something else you can't decipher. But you no longer listen, because each word he says hits you like an echo of something you've been waiting for your whole life.

You insist, even though you know it's useless. You talk to him about the storm, about the time that dragged you here, but Salvo just clenches his jaw and turns his gaze to the window, to that perpetually gray sky. The age, you think, the difference between you is an abyss impossible to cross, but here you are, begging with your eyes, asking for a chance to stay close. For him to see you.

"I'm much older than you," he reminds you, his voice rough and tense, as if every word costs him twice the effort. And you can only laugh. Laugh because it’s so ironic, so ridiculous. As if age could matter when the whole world has gone to hell.