“Samo ti,” he sang, the Serbo-Croatian words vibrating with a resonance he hadn’t expected. “Samo ti znaš što je ljubav ta...”

As he began the first verse, the familiar English words drifted out like a soft fog. “Only you can make all this world seem right...” But as he reached the chorus, he watched her fingers trace the rim of her glass. He took a breath and shifted the language of his heart to the language of her home.

Across the room, near the balcony overlooking the Adriatic, she sat alone.

The room went still. The clinking of glasses stopped. She looked up, her eyes locking onto his. In that moment, the song wasn't just a chart-topper from 1955; it was a bridge. He sang of a love that didn't need a passport, a feeling that translated perfectly between the green hills of Kildare and the rocky coast of Yugoslavia.

The lights of the seaside ballroom in Opatija were low, but the air was thick with the scent of saltwater and expensive perfume. Joe stood by the piano, the microphone a cold weight in his hand. He had sung "Only You" a thousand times in packed halls across Ireland, but tonight, the lyrics carried a different weight.