Narrow café on the corner of Calle Obispo, the one with the wobbly tables and strong espresso, buzzed with late-morning warmth. The man who sells coffee for one dollar at the beach had just walked past again, still holding out his thermos and charm. Rafael smiled at the sight, but this time, he was seated at a table, half-shaded by a green awning, watching the quiet hustle of Havana unfold.

  A waitress with bright eyes and tired shoulders brought him his cortado.

  "Gracias," Rafael said, "?cómo te va hoy?"

  She sighed. "Just working. Always working."

  He nodded. "And when you're not?" She paused, looking out across the street. "Thinking. Dreaming, sometimes."

  Rafael tilted his head. "Dreaming of what?" She gave a small shrug. "A quieter life. One where I’m not on my feet twelve hours a day. One where I don’t have to split my rent with two cousins. Maybe even a little home, some flowers, a place to sit and read."

  "Sounds peaceful," he said gently. She nodded, then added with a soft laugh, "And maybe... a child or two. A boy and a girl. I always pictured that. But it’s just a picture now. A fantasy. I don’t see how it could work."

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  "Because of money?" She gave a short, almost embarrassed laugh. "Of course. A baby is sweet until it's hungry. Then it's a bill."

  Rafael tilted his head thoughtfully. "I have three." The waitress blinked. "Three?" Her face lit up before she caught herself. "That must be... expensive."

  "In Mosaic?" Rafael smiled. "No. Children aren't liabilities there. They're... participation. Contribution. We raise them together. Having more doesn't make life harder—it lifts you up. Boosts your rating, too." He hesitated just a second, then shrugged. "It's not like your credit score or whatever. It's more like... a footprint. A social one. The more you give, the more you're trusted. Valued. And raising people? That counts."

  She ran a finger around the rim of the cup, her eyes far away. "Here, even people with good jobs can't afford more than one. I heard in the U.S., a kid costs three hundred thousand dollars to raise. That true?"

  Rafael nodded. "Zero to eighteen years old, yes. That's the math. And even governments can't cover that. Not for everyone. It's not about families anymore. It's a business model. Nothing personal."

  "But I'm not a business," she whispered. "I'm just... a person who wants to love someone."

  He looked at her kindly. "I know. And in some places, that's enough."

  She stared into his eyes for a long moment. "Do your kids know how lucky they are?"

  He grinned. "They think it's normal."