Joe looks at Nelly with that glimmer in his eye, the kind that carries both gratitude and awe.
“Prime Minister Nelly Kim Furtado,” he says softly, “no other girl gives me that butterflies-in-the-stomach love vibration high like you do.”
Nelly smiles, her voice gentle but anchored in purpose. “Joe,” she says, “butterflies can’t feed a hungry nation.”
He chuckles, a little embarrassed but still sincere. “Maybe not. But music can. You ever think about making a Fado record someday? You know—fate—the soul of Portugal in song?”
Nelly gazes out the window at the golden fields of a rebuilding Canada. “Maybe,” she says after a pause, “after the Jubilee—when our people are no longer hungry. When every stomach is full and every soul can afford to feel again… then I’ll sing Fado.”
The wind hums softly through the open window, carrying the promise of both love and destiny.