Her first visitor was Mateo, who balanced ledgers by day and sketched blueprints at night but feared his sketches would be called impractical. He spoke in half-formed sentences—numbers with margins, lines that never met. Alina traced a finger along a page of blank paper and asked, “Which part of your work brings you back to the table when everything else pulls you away?” He blinked, surprised. He had expected instructions; she offered a hinge. He spoke of light—of how a room could make someone linger. Alina suggested a small experiment: design a single window for a café that would steal attention from noise and make people sit. Mateo laughed, then sketched with a kind of hunger. The task was tiny, concrete, and safe; the stubborn kernel of his passion loosened.