Years passed, and the vine flourished, producing grapes as dark as a midnight bruise. When Andrei finally pressed the fruit, the juice didn't run red or purple; it shimmered with a deep, iridescent silver. He bottled it and tucked it away, letting it age in a silence so profound it felt heavy.

The "Vină mândră" became a local myth. It was said that a single glass could restore a broken spirit or give a coward the heart of a lion. Yet Andrei was careful. He never sold a bottle. He only shared it "pe-nserat"—at twilight—with those who arrived at his door with a heavy heart and an honest story.

This was no ordinary vintage. Legend whispered that Andrei had inherited a single, gnarled vine from a traveler who had traded it for a night’s shelter. The traveler claimed the vine drank only moonlight and the sighs of the restless. Andrei, a skeptic of ghost stories but a lover of the craft, had planted it in the shadow of a limestone cliff where no other plant dared to grow.