Boroka, back in Budapest, looked out her rain-streaked window. On her desk lay the leather journal, open to a page covered in messy, ungraph-papered scrawl.

“I am planning to understand it.”

“No system,” she admitted. “Everything here resists my grids. The rain comes without warning. The roads don’t follow coordinates. People stop to talk in the middle of intersections. And today… that woman singing at a funeral. I couldn’t even categorize it. It was sad and happy and loud and intimate all at once.”

“No notes?” he asked, sitting beside her.

Kofi nodded slowly. “In the Caribbean,” he said, “we don’t separate things like that. Grief and joy—they’re the same tide. You can’t measure a wave, miss. You can only let it move through you.”

“The Caribbean?” she said into her phone, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You want me to do relaxation ? I don’t do relaxation. I do infrastructure and the proper angle of church spires.”

Kofi looked at the clipboard, then at Boroka. “You planning to eat the forest, miss?”

“I’m writing something else,” she said. “It’s called The Unquantifiable Sea . It’s about a woman who went to the Caribbean to measure everything and ended up learning how to feel.”