(the woman leaving, the new lover, the narrator) The ending (tragic, hopeful, or a twist) I can rewrite the scene or expand on a specific moment.

Raúl stands up. He doesn't have a partner, but he begins to move. He dances with the ghost of her presence, his steps sharp and desperate. He is reclaiming his pride through the very tempo that mocks him.

As the salsa swing intensifies, the lyrics "Ahora quién" (Now who?) stop being a melody and become an interrogation.

The spotlight hits a half-empty glass of scotch, casting long, amber shadows across the mahogany bar. Outside, the tropical rain of San Juan hammers the pavement, but inside, the air is thick with the smell of expensive cologne and old regrets.

The brass section explodes into a chaotic, joyful frenzy—a cruel contrast to Raúl's internal silence. In salsa, you dance through the pain. You shake your hips to the rhythm of a breaking heart because, in this world, if you stop moving, the sadness catches up.

The piano begins—a soft, haunting montuno that feels like a finger tracing a scar. This is her song. Or rather, the song they used to claim.

Raúl remembers the way she spun in that red silk dress.

Raúl adjusts his cufflinks. He doesn't look like a man who just lost everything, but the way he stares at the empty stage tells a different story. The Rhythm of the Ghost