Locura

The winter cold seems to have been invented specifically to test the strength of longing. Scarves, sweaters, and blankets save only the body, but not the heart, which stubbornly trembles without the warmth of another. Every morning is like a vase of flowers, fragile and too beautiful to touch, but without something alive inside, it quickly becomes empty.

In this story, everything revolves around one word - “locura”. Madness that does not frighten, but heals. It mixes the smells of clothes, erases boundaries and leaves only bare feelings. There is no logic or plan in them, only a fire that lasts as long as it is meant to. But that's enough to burn away fears from memory and restore faith in small, almost childish joys: a rose in your hair, a key in your palm, a glance that can repaint the sky.