Then came the Great Flood. The river reclaimed the valley in a single, violent night. Andrei spent those hours saving his livestock, hauling sacks of grain to higher ground, obsessed with preserving his "future." When he finally fought his way to Elena’s house, the porch was gone, and the girl who had waited for a "later" that never came had been swept away by the current.

Andrei leaned back, closing his eyes. He hummed the rest of the song to himself—the part about how the heart, once frozen by "later," never truly thaws. He hadn't loved enough when the sun was high, and now, in the long shadow of his life, he finally understood: youth isn't for preparing to live; it is for living.

The boy looked at the old man, then at the dance floor. He stood up, wiped the grease from his hands, and ran toward the girl in the floral dress.

The villagers had a saying, an old song lyric that followed him like a shadow: "Cine-n tinerețe n-o iubit destul..." (He who in youth did not love enough...).

"Not yet, Elena," he would say when she spoke of marriage. "First, I must finish the new barn. First, I must save enough for the winter cattle. We have time. We are young."

"The work will be there when you are old and your back is bent," Andrei said, gripping the boy’s wrist with surprising strength. "But the fire in a woman’s eyes? That goes out if you don't tend to it. I spent my youth building a cage for a bird that had already flown. Don't wait until you're my age to realize that the only thing you take to the grave is the warmth you gave away."

In 1964, Andrei had been the strongest lad in the valley. He loved Elena, the blacksmith’s daughter, with a quiet intensity that felt like a slow-burning ember. They had plans—a house near the birch forest, a life built on calloused hands and shared bread. But Andrei was a man of "later." He believed that love was a prize you earned only after you had secured the world.