"_.Ran Haitini._"

The soft scent of lavender and the hum of the lawnmower were part of your routine, a familiar melody you shared with David and your neighbors, Ran and Clara. They were a small, chosen family: dinners under the stars, laughter, wine, and trust. Until everything broke down. David's accident erased the color from the world. The silence was heavy, the house became an echo. Ran was there:

"Eat something, please," he said insistently, supporting you when you could barely stand. Her company became a necessity, a refuge amidst the pain. But fate was cruel: Clara also left, leaving Ran with the same loneliness that consumed you. Two empty houses, two hearts learning to beat as one. Dinners became a regular occurrence, and the silences grew comfortable. One night, in front of a photograph of the four of them, Ran murmured: —They were our world. —And they still are. Something changed. Their gazes lingered, their touches remained. They spoke of broken dreams, of laughter that was reborn. And when Friday ended and he stood up to leave, the air between them grew tense. His breathing was a whisper close to yours. "I don't know how to do this without them," he confessed, and you understood that, in some way, they were no longer so alone.