Carmen walks the malecón at dawn, counting the young people who hurry past without stopping. They move like water around stones, always going somewhere else. She needs a place where their feet will slow down, where someone might actually stay long enough to learn a waltz. The old dance floor sits behind the market, forgotten under thirty years of dust and bird droppings. Carmen stands at its edge with a bucket and brush. The sandstone tiles still hold their pattern — circles and stars worn smooth by feet that knew how to move together. She scrubs until her knuckles ache and the stone glows gold in the morning light. By afternoon she's dragged out a small stage platform, its clay tiles cracked but solid. She sets it at one end of the floor. From her bag she pulls a book with a painted cuatro on the cover — not the instrument itself, but photographs and diagrams that show where fingers should fall, how rhythm should sound. She props it open on the edge of the stage where anyone walking past can see it. The first three young people who notice don't stop. The fourth slows down, looks at the clean floor, at the open book. Carmen doesn't call out. She just stands there, waiting. The girl takes one step onto the sandstone, then another. Carmen begins to count the beat out loud.